


Destiel Drabbles Promptober 2018

by TheTwistedWillow



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Music Store, Coffee Shops, Destiel Promptober, Drabble Collection, Firefighter Dean Winchester, Gamer Castiel, M/M, Soulmates, Vampire Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-07-23 18:37:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 46,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16164569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTwistedWillow/pseuds/TheTwistedWillow
Summary: It's that time of year again--Promptober. Each day of October, I will be writing a short drabble based on a word(s). These drabbles are supposed to be under 2K words but sometimes I go over a little (shhh) and each one is posted as a different chapter.Ratings and any warnings will be found at the beginning of each chapter/story. For that reason, this entire collection is labeled "Not Rated" due to there being multiple ratings.





	1. Coffee Shop

**Author's Note:**

> Update: October is over and I managed to get 21 drabbles written out of 31. Considering that many of these could be made into much longer stories, I feel really happy about what I've managed to brainstorm and get written. I absolutely love chatting with readers via comments so be sure to drop me a word or two about any of the drabbles that you would like to see expanded upon. If you don't want to miss new stories please consider subscribing to my AO3 (click my username and then SUBSCRIBE). XOXO

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean owns a record store next door to a hip coffee shop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's prompt: COFFEE SHOP  
> Rating: TEEN  
> Warnings: None
> 
> It's almost 2am and this is most likely incoherent, but damn it--I'm gonna publish something today. I'll re-read after I catch some Zzz's and edit any mistakes. For now, I think you'll get the gist of it.

The bell above Dean’s shop door jingles but Dean knows it’s Charlie, and not a customer, when it slams shut.

“You’re gonna break something,” Dean calls out.

“Salut, Bitches,” Charlie replies, weaving between the rows of carefully organized music records, and other merchandise, joining Dean behind the counter.  

“And I still don’t get why you say that plural when it’s only me here.”

Charlie hands him two hot styrofoam mugs filled with dark liquidy goodness, then slips her backpack off, followed by her purse. 

“And why do you carry around so much shit?”

“That’s for me to know and for you to shut your pie hole about.” Charlie snickers. “Get it? Pie hole? ‘Cause you love pie and your mouth is a hole—“

“Charlie? Just… no.”

“Okay, whatever. So,” she takes her cup back from Dean, “time to get crackin’ because these floors aren’t gonna sweep themselves. And we are clearly one hoppin’ music store at nine AM on a Wednesday.” Charlie lifts her hands, coffee and all, and weakly fake cheers, wiggling the fingers of the free one like jazz hands. “Yaaaay.”

“It’s only Tuesday,” Dean informs her, returning to his computer to continue the ad he’s designing for their next major sale and live music event. He blows on his coffee and takes a timid sip. It’s just on the right side of hot. It doesn’t burn but it isn’t lukewarm either.

“Don’t you dare tell me that we’re one day further away from the weekend,” Charlie yells from the storage closet she’s just disappeared into.

“Mmph, I wanna marry whoever makes this coffee,” Dean groans. He takes another (less careful) sip.

“Oh, yeah?” Charlie brushes her bangs out of her eyes and leans on the broomstick that she‘s found. “You might have to fight me for him.”

“I thought you were into other chicks. How’s that a fight?”

“ _He_ doesn’t know that. Actually,” Charlie’s nose scrunches up cutely, “I think he likes me.”

“Wow, and you don’t even correct him? Tsk, tsk.”

Charlie rolls her eyes and starts sweeping. “Okay, I don’t know-know. I just suspect. And I withhold the truth about my gay ass for the benefit of the both of us.”

“He gives you free or discounted coffee, doesn’t he?”

“He gives me discounted coffee,” Charlie announces like she hadn’t even heard Dean. “He wears classic rock tees all the time, too. Today’s is Dark Side of the Moon.”

“Floyd, nice. But I don’t see how the shirts factor in here.”

“He knows I work here and he purposely puts on rock-n-roll shirts. Isn’t that kinda flirty?”

“Or he just has good taste in music, happens to work next to a record store, and it has nothing to do with you. You really don’t know how guys flirt, do you?”

“I’m hopeless,” Charlie admits. “But if I _was_ into dick, I’d do him. He is one dreamy dude. Hell, maybe I’ll ask him to be my baby daddy one day, no strings attached.”

“A man that can set your queer heart straight-ish? Now I’m really curious.”

“Tell ya what. Why don’t you defend my honor, make sure he’s not really trying to get in these sexy pants,” Charlie wiggles her butt, the bajillion rainbow graphics printed all over her leggings wiggle and scrunch up along with her movements, “and you get the coffee for us tomorrow. Deal?”

“No way. I hate ordering coffee. They have weird sizes and there’s a special way to say everything so you don’t sound like a fucking moron.”

“It’s really not that complicated, ya big baby. If I can do it then you can, too.” Charlie holds up the broom and pokes Dean with the tip of the handle. “C’mon, you know you want to. I’ll even write down what to say so you can order like a normal person.”

Dean sighs heavily. “Fine. But you’re buyin’. And you’re opening the store tomorrow.”

“Deal.”

On Wednesday—actual Wednesday—Dean walks into the coffeehouse like he owns the joint, walks right up to the cash register and is greeted by an attractive brunette.

An attractive brunette _woman_. And she’s wearing a nice lavender blouse and jeans with a black apron tied around her waist, not classic rock.

Obviously, this isn’t the person Charlie was referring to. Dean frowns and glances around. There’s another young woman wiping down tables and a third blending some iced coffee drink.

Dean smiles at the cashier and pulls out the notecard Charlie made him, reading off their order.

“Charlie,” Dean yells when he enters his store and doesn’t see any customers lingering anywhere.

“The cavalry has arrived,” Charlie says dramatically, coming out from the back office. “Gimme, gimme.”

“Bup bup bup—I don’t think so. Did you pull a fast one on me? Because there was no guy in classic rock tees making steamers and cappuccinos.”

“Huh. Must be his day off then, or something.”

“Or something,” Dean mocks, handing Charlie her latte. “Yeah, something like he doesn’t exist.”

Charlie cups her styrofoam between both hands and inhales the scent of her drink. “So go again tomorrow. What’re the chances he’s off two days in a row?”

After a lot of bickering, Dean ends up going again on Thursday morning. Charlie convinced him to bring a few of the flyers that he just made to see if the coffee shop would let Dean leave them.

He sidles up to the counter and waits for the barista—and this has gotta be the dude Charlie was talking about since it’s the only guy behind the counter—to turn around.

Dean can’t make out much with the guy’s back to him but he can hear a plastic lid snap onto a cup. The man picks it up, turns, and Dean gulps.

The first thing he notices is the cupid's bow of the man's lip, followed by his azure eyes, and then Dean's eyes roam down to the shirt--yup, Zeppelin. Kill him now, please.

The barista seems startled by Dean's presence but recovers swiftly after he stammers out the name scrawled across the side of the cup in Sharpie.

“Thank you, Sandra,” the man passes the drink across the counter to a woman in a pantsuit. “See you tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Cas. You're my lifesaver,” Sandra says, holding the cup up in salute.

Blue eyes return to Dean. “The usual?”

Dean blinks. “I, uh, I’ve never been in here. How do you know my usual?”

“Your coworker always comes in?” Cas says, framing his statement almost like a question.

“Right,” Dean says, snapping his fingers. “You got the hots for Charlie so of course you’d know our order. Here’s the thing, pal, 'cause I gotta level with ya. She’s not in your club. Know what I mean?”

Cas narrows his eyes a little and thinks it over, shaking his head from side-to-side. “I’m really not sure what you mean at all.”

“She said—“

“You gonna order, or what?” the person behind Dean snaps.

“He’s already ordered,” Cas replies, grabbing two cups and a marker, quickly writing across both of them before scooting them down the counter toward another barista. He takes Dean’s card for payment and then moves onto the cranky customer.

“Sorry about the wait, Marv. What can I get for you?”

Dean hangs back and it’s only when the line of customer dies down that Cas calls, “Charlie’s order?” But instead of staying behind the counter, Cas comes around and hands Dean the piping hot cups.

“Um, so what I was gonna say before? Charlie ain’t interested so don’t waste your time there.”

Cas’ lip twitches and he ducks his head. When he looks back up at Dean his eyes are practically gleaming. “I know she’s openly queer, and she knows I’m not into her.”

“Wait, I’m confused. She told me you were hitting on her.”

“Believe me when I say I wasn’t. It kinda takes one queer to know another. Sometimes," Cas amends. "Sometimes I get it wrong, but I'm usually right.”

If Dean had a free hand he'd smack himself in the forehead for being so dumb. Clearly, Charlie just wanted to get out of coffee duty and made shit up. She's so busted, especially because he's just embarrassed himself in front of one extremely attractive guy who is, Dean notices, standing awfully close.

"In that case, uh, never mind then," Dean says, ready to book it back to his shop. But then he remembers something. "Oh, hey, can I leave some flyers? We're gonna stay open late Saturday. A couple of local bands are going to play, there're doorbusters and stuff. It's gonna be a good time."  
  
"Of course," Cas says.  
  
Dean manages to cradle both coffees in one hand and pulls the small stack of printed papers out of his back pocket, handing them over to Cas.   
  
"You can come, too," Dean blurts out.    
  
"Is this--could I consider your invitation a personal one?" Cas asks, taking a tiny step closer.  
  
"I, um--"  
  
"Like I said, kinda takes one to know one," Cas repeats and the rest finally clicks for Dean. The coffee discount to keep Charlie interested in coming back every day, the band tees, the fact that Cas recognized Dean and connected him to Charlie despite Dean having never seen this Cas guy before today. 

The guy doesn't have a crush on  _Charlie_. He has a crush on  _Dean._  
  
Smiling slowly, Dean closes the remaining distance between them, leans in, and whispers, "It's a date."


	2. Children

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean is a first-grade teacher who tries to help one of his young students through devastating loss.
> 
> Today's word is CHILDREN.  
> Rating: TEEN.  
> Warnings: mentions of loss/death. No MCD.  
> I'm not a therapist. This is fiction. Please do not take it as medical diagnosis or advice whatsoever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is a somewhat somber piece. I don't have any experience with art therapy. What Dean and Cas do, and what they say, is all fiction and is not necessarily medically approved or sound. Please do not take it seriously. 
> 
> And you should check out my friend's story from yesterday because I feel like the emotion of her piece carried over to my mood and is why I felt inspired to write something less peppy/fluffy.  
> Her story can be found here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16158227/chapters/37754636

How Dean--former public nuisance and mischief maker--ended up becoming a first-grade teacher is a surprise to any older folk who knew him growing up. But to him, the choice was a no-brainer. Despite everything he’d gone through to get to this point, he’s still a child at heart. One who missed out on a lot of the finger painting, tetherball and cuddling with someone over a bedtime story.  
  
He chose early education because the kids aren’t too little and they aren’t too big. They’re this perfect in-between where they are (mostly) agreeable, generally empathetic, and they tend to lose their little minds over simple joys like how a caterpillar becomes a butterfly.  
  
Bottom line, they’re pretty damn awesome and Dean feels like he fits right in. Especially when he gets to do fun things, like putting on a puppet show or doing silly voices as he reads ‘ _There Was an Old Lady Who Swallowed a Fly’_ while the kids dissolve into giggles.  

For most children, this is a carefree period in the span of their lifetime. Unfortunately, for other kids, life isn’t all sunshine and rainbows. And death--well, death is the ultimate thief of innocence, marring the hearts of children who lose a parent too soon. Even worse is unexpectedly losing both parents at once.

Dean’s mom died when he was young but his dad’s soul died right along with her. The widower left behind in the wake of her loss was either a disinterested, vacant shell or a raging hurricane of fury. Dean and Sam may have had a living parent by all other appearances but a lot of the time it felt like they had none at all.  
  
So he understands why Claire—a typically talkative and energetic student—is withdrawn and quiet when she returns from a week-long absence following the death of both of her parents because he, too, went through it.

The guidance counselor, Ms. Masters, personally walks Claire to Dean’s door. It was decided by the staff that the school day should be as routine as possible for Claire’s sake and that if at any time she needs a moment to herself, she is free to go visit Ms. Masters’ office.  
  
Claire immediately goes to her desk instead of giggling with her friends by the window, as she would normally do, and curls in on herself. Someone had taken the time to twist Claire’s blonde hair into twin braids that morning, but there are dark circles above her pale cheeks and she’s missing her easy smile. 

Yeah, death fucking sucks.  
  
And the children--bless ‘em--take turns patting her and giving her hugs, telling her how much she was missed. When it’s clear that it’s becoming too much for her, though, Dean sends everyone to their desks early in order to give Claire some breathing room. 

Even as he keeps nineteen students engaged in their lessons, his eyes constantly drift to Claire to gauge how she is doing. She hangs back and he doesn’t force her to participate. When the rest of the class goes outside for recess, Ms. Brooks from the other first-grade class offers to watch Dean’s class, too, so that he can talk to Claire alone.

“Hey, kiddo,” Dean says, crouching down beside her desk so he’s at her eye level.

She looks away and tugs at her fingers, her entire body taut with stress. She’s screaming that she’s uncomfortable without even saying a word.

“Who braided your hair today? I really like it,” he says gently, deflecting from the very obvious elephant in the room. He’ll get to it when she’s ready to talk.

Her shoulders relax only slightly, but it’s a start. “Uncle Cas,” she whispers.

Hearing her voice so small and hoarseis nearly his undoing, a prickle of tears forming in his eyes.

He forgot just how powerful and sneaky grief can steal in, like waves of an incoming tide that begin gentle and unassuming but then build into an overwhelming intensity. To be completely fine one moment and then, in a snap, get pulled under.

Old, dusty feelings that have been boxed up and stored in the cellar of his heart resurface and wash over him anew, as if it were only yesterday that he put on a tiny black suit and stood beside his mother’s empty casket.

Dean has to swallow several times to try and dislodge a thickness that has formed in his throat before he speaks again.

“Well,” he tries to speak lightly, “your uncle did a pretty fantastic job. Do you want to go outside with the other kids and play?”  
  
Claire tenses, pulls her shoulders up to her ears and shakes her head in the negative.  
  
“Me neither.” Dean stands up and walks across the room to get paper and some crayons. “We can hang out here if you want.”  
  
He sets the short stack of papers on Claire’s desk and borrows a small chair from a neighboring kid’s desk, pulling it up opposite of her. Without giving her any direction he takes a piece of paper for himself, grabs a red crayon, and starts drawing.  
  
Claire watches him for a moment and then slowly pulls a piece of paper toward herself.  
  
“I’m drawing fire,” he informs her. “Sometimes I have bad dreams about fire because that’s how my mom died.”  
  
A small hand reaches for the dark blue crayon but Claire just holds it on her lap and continues to watch as Dean angrily covers his paper in long red strokes. He’s angry for his lost innocence and angry for Claire’s.    
  
“When I wake up after a bad dream, I try to find something good to do, like exercise. Drawing or writing about the bad things can help get it out of here, too,” Dean taps the blunt end of the crayon on his temple. “Doesn’t mean it goes away forever, but it helps for awhile.”

Claire drags the blue crayon along her paper, making a boxy shape. Dean’s heart clenches when he realizes what she’s drawing.

He diverts his eyes and exchanges his red crayon for an orange one, resuming his scribbling, the sound of wax gliding against paper filling the air between them.

He has so many questions he wants answers to. He’s worried about what kind of support she has at home. And where will home be for her now? Will Claire be moving away to live with a relative? Is a relative—this uncle she mentioned—going to be her guardian or will they try to find someone to adopt Claire? What if she ends up in foster care?  
  
But he can’t ask her any of this. For one, she is probably in the dark and already anxious about her fate, and two, much of these details seem to extend well beyond his need-to-know in order for him to do his job. It’s just that he can’t help but care about what happens to her. He doesn’t have biological children but his students may as well be  _his kids_.

Claire pushes her finished drawing toward him and he looks it over intently, grateful she decided to willingly share it with him. Anyone else might think her drawing is an abstract of colorful shapes but Dean’s stomach drops when he sees the resemblance between the dark blue rectangle, sitting on two black circles, and her parents’ minivan. One end of the van has whorls of black and red scribbles that illustrate the point of impact from their crash.  
  
While he tries to figure out what to even say, a light tapping sounds from his doorway. Dean looks up to see who is entering his classroom and does a double take because the man stepping inside the room is Claire’s dead dad.  
  
The visitor must register the alarm on Dean’s face because he holds up his hands as if to show he’s harmless and when he speaks, his careful baritone is much deeper than Jimmy’s voice had been.

“I get that reaction a lot, but I’m not J--” The sentence drops off abruptly, the man’s jaw clenching to suppress a rush of emotion, the man unable to fill in the blank where Jimmy’s name should go. He clears his throat and tries again. “I’m Claire’s uncle, Castiel.”

Dean shakes his head at himself for being ridiculous and thinking the man was a ghost. He stands up to shake Castiel’s hand and tries not to stare but the resemblance to Jimmy is uncanny. Dean can only imagine how hard it is for Claire to have an uncle around who looks just like her dad. Or maybe it helps, ‘cause what does he know?  
  
“With everything that’s happened,” Castiel lowers his voice, “I wanted to stop by and see how her first day is going. I was told this would be a good time?”  
  
“Yeah, definitely. Here, you can take my seat. We were just coloring.”  
  
He steps back from the desk so that Castiel can sit down. Claire hasn’t looked up and is resolutely ignoring them while scribbling on a new piece of paper with a green crayon.  
  
“Hello, Claire,” Castiel says as he sits stiffly in the uncomfortable kid-sized chair. He’s wearing a business suit and has a long tan coat in his hand that he folds across his lap. When she doesn’t reply he leans over further, his knees nearly in his chest, and asks, “What’re you coloring?”  
  
The first picture Claire made is still sitting on the desk and Dean watches Castiel’s nimble fingers reach out to touch the car when Claire doesn’t respond to the question.   
  
To be honest, he doesn’t know what to make of this uncle, having never heard of him before the comment about braiding her hair. The only thing he knows about Claire’s extended family is learned from an off-handed comment Amelia had made once that none of their family lived here in Kansas.

She had said that they moved away from everyone because most of them were dicks. Well, that wasn’t her exact word. Dean kinda got that impression himself when she said they were unsupportive of Jimmy’s career and lifestyle.

Knowing only that, the last thing that Dean expects is for Castiel to pick up a piece of blank paper and begin coloring along with Claire. One blonde head and one dark head are bowed over their respective pages, two souls sitting together and yet are so far apart for the chasm of tension between them.

Dean sits at his desk and takes the time to begin preparing his next lesson so he’s not hovering and only looks up again when he hears Claire quietly ask, “What’s that?”  
  
From his seat, Dean can’t see the paper that Castiel twists around and pushes across Claire’s desk but Castiel begins explaining it. “This is me, and this is my brother. Your dad. A long time ago we were little like you. And, like you, my brother was always talking and doing naughty things that he wasn’t supposed to do.” A rumbly chuckle fills the room, warming it and lightening the somber mood. “But guess who would always get in trouble for it?”  
  
“You?”  
  
“Yes, me,” Castiel admits almost wistfully. “Sometimes I chose to take the blame, to protect him.” Castiel pushes the paper closer to Claire. “You can keep this in your room or on the fridge if you want, to remind us both of the happier times.”  
  
Pride swells up in Dean’s chest. It seems so miniscule, just a simple drawing, but it feels like a breakthrough has happened. Claire hugs the paper to her chest. She doesn’t say thank you audibly but instead by the way her bright blue eyes glisten with gratitude as she gazes at her uncle.  
  
“You can keep coloring. I’d like to talk to your teacher in the hallway for a minute. Will you be alright by yourself?”  
  
A little bit of the Claire as Dean knows her appears when Claire rolls her eyes. She even scoffs, showing off a little bit of her sassy attitude. “Yes, Uncle Cas.”  
  
One step ahead of his guest, Dean goes out to the hall and waits for Castiel to pull the door closed behind them. Dean’s heart skips a few beats when their eyes meet. It’s only now that Dean really gets a good look at how harried Claire’s uncle appears, his hair is unkempt and he has bags under his eyes.  
  
“Thank you for coming to check on her,” Dean starts first, to break the ice.  
  
“To be honest, I don’t know what I’m doing. It has been a very hectic week of taking care of the estate and making funeral arrangements, having guests come and go, learning how to care for a child as I don’t have any experience…”

“Yeah, she said you braided her hair. Doesn’t look too shabby, man.”

Castiel nods sagely. “I watched a video online.”  
  
“And, uh, what you did back there with coloring the happy memory? That was real good.” Dean takes a deep breath. There’s just something he’s gotta know but he isn’t sure how to ask so instead he says, “The art is something you both should consider continuing when you move, assuming you’re taking Claire back home with you.”  
  
“I’m not taking Claire anywhere,” Castiel says, frowning.  
  
“Ah, shoot, sorry. I assumed you were her legal guardian,” Dean gestures toward the door, “because you’re the only one here and you seem to be the one taking care of her.”

“You assume part of it correctly. I am her legal guardian but I don’t want to uproot her. I think she’s gone through enough, don’t you?” Castiel tips his head to the side quizzically. “I’m moving here from Illinois.”

“Wow,” Dean replies, genuinely impressed that someone would make such a huge decision like that. But he’s also really pleased to know that Claire isn’t going anywhere. “And your wife or girlfriend—or whoever—is cool with all of this?”

“Being single,” Cas says slowly, carefully, “can sometimes have its perks.”

  
+++  
  
  
“Anyway,” Claire takes a breath after her long-winded story, “that is how Dad--which is what I started calling my first-grade teacher a couple of years later--has retold the story to me. I’ve since forgotten a lot about my biological parents and those early days following their deaths.

“But it is for this very reason that I feel that art therapy is vital in helping children, especially nonverbal children, to communicate their emotions and thoughts. Even if the children don’t retain the actual memories of that time, they will retain the effects of how they were allowed to grieve and process their trauma.”  
  
Claire takes a moment to collect her next thought, looking around the room and making eye contact with several of the college students in the class that she’s guest speaking at.  
  
“As I just shared, Dad had lost his mom in a house fire when he was a child. He didn’t have nearly the same level of support that I had after my losses. Did he become a successful, functioning member of society despite that? Of course. But it was a hard-paved, very dark, and very lonely road that had very lasting effects on how he related, and still relates, to other people.”  
  
Claire picks up one of two large picture frames that is resting on her podium. She stares down at the crude crayon drawing that Papa had drawn nearly two decades ago—of two identical stick figure brothers holding hands.  
  
She turns it around and holds it out for the class to see. “Grief counseling isn’t just about getting your clients to open up about all of their fears and bad memories. Yes, those things need to come out. But it is just as important to get them to recall the joyous moments in their life.”

She sets that frame down and picks up the second, taking a moment to look over the picture she had colored while the men had been talking in the hallway all those years ago. She shows the class as she speaks.

“I drew this after I made the picture of my parents’ wrecked van. I didn’t know it then but it’s like I subconsciously chose my family right there. I mean, they had just met and it’s like I knew. I knew they’d both be there for me.”

Claire turns the picture back around and lightly touches the picture of Dad in the green shirt. She most likely picked the green to match Dean’s eyes. On the other side is Papa, a smiling stick figure with a dark brown squiggle of hair that funnily resembles a Mohawk. And between them is a much shorter figure, a girl with canary yellow hair.

“Dad and Papa will never _replace_ my biological parents.” She smiles. “But they are add-ons, my bonuses. And it is because of their devotion and love for me that I didn’t get lost along the way, as Dad had.”  
  
Claire replaces the framed picture on the podium. “Thank you for allowing me to share my personal story of why I chose to become a licensed child therapist.”


	3. Video Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel is tired of the drudgery and seeks to escape reality through an MMO RPG (massive multiplayer online role playing game), where he's befriended several people. Including one special person in particular. 
> 
> MMO RPG = one of the most well known is World of Warcraft but because my husband plays Elder Scrolls, I'm more familiar with those characters and that world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's prompt: VIDEO GAME  
> Rating: TEEN  
> Warnings: None
> 
> I wanted to add about another thousand words to this but I'm going to upload it for now and maybe add the rest later. Fingers crossed.

‘ _T_ _GIF_ ,’ Castiel thinks to himself while shutting down his computer and straightening his desk before he can leave the office. He is ready to put the work week behind him and enjoy a much-needed weekend-long escape from reality.

He locks his briefcase and flicks the light switch before he turns out the door, nearly colliding with another person.

“Cas,” Hannah says breathlessly, a hand lighting on his chest, “I was just coming to find you.”

He shuffles backward a few covert steps while she moves to adjust her tight shirt, pulling it down far enough to expose a little more cleavage. He diverts his eyes from the little bits of indigo lace peek-a-booing up against the soft, plump mounds of exposed skin.

Cas has heard the rumors about her being attracted to him but he doesn’t reciprocate, nor does he have feelings for her. She tends to make these displays around him exclusively, adding to his discomfort.

“Hester, Inias, Joshua, and I are going down to the Cheddar Shack for appetizers and happy hour. I wanted to see if you’d like to come.”

“Hannah,” Cas sighs. “I can’t. I have plans.”

It’s the same song and dance almost every week. She asks and he makes up a reason to decline. Hannah is particularly persistent about inviting Cas to go out whereas everyone else doesn’t mind one way or another if he comes or not.   
  
Hannah is clearly perturbed by his answer and she crosses her arms under her bosom. “So you’re just going to go home and be alone.”   
  
“I won’t be… alone,” Cas argues, albeit weakly, because he won’t physically be in the same room as anyone, unless you count his cat, Newton.

The truth is that he talks to the people in his head. Well, they’re not exactly  _in_ his head. They’re talking to him through a headset that he wears while he plays his favorite MMO RPG, which is like LARPing but virtual instead of live action.   
  
But he’s not going to tell Hannah or anyone about that. He went through high school. He knows what people are like when they find out his geeky secrets. 

“Oh.” Hannah appears a little stunned and blinks a few times before uncrossing her arms. “Well, I didn’t realize you were seeing someone.”

Cas has no idea how she reached that conclusion just because he had said that he has plans but he runs with it.

“I’m sorry I can’t make it but have a good time.” Cas walks around her and heads toward the elevator. “I’ll see you on Monday.”

When Cas finally gets settled in at home with some Thai takeout and a purring beast of an orange tabby sprawled out next to him, he pops on his headset and logs onto Elder Scrolls as an Argonian. It’s basically a reptilian humanoid with dark green, leathery skin.  
  
“Hey, guys,” he greets lowly when he’s connected to his guild’s chat.   
  
“Angeles, you finally made it,” the friendly, female voice of their guild leader greets him. “We were about to raid without you.”   
  
“Thanks for waiting, CyberPenny.”   
  
“Aw, it’s nothin--”   
  
“We were actually waiting for the Imp,” which is short for 6impala7, “to get back from making a burger,” VampChief cuts in. “But if you wanna believe we was waiting for you, too, be my guest.”

“Ya know, the great thing about these wireless headsets is that I can cook dinner and listen in on you guys at the same time,” Impala drawls, the timber of his voice tiptoeing down and back up Cas’ spine. “And of course we were gonna wait for Angeles. He’s the best damn Healer we got.”  
  
Cas flushes with the compliment, especially coming from Impala, but stays quiet. He and Impala have been playing together for nearly a year, maybe a bit longer, and have really good instincts when they play.   
  
“And you’re the best damn Tank, Imp,” BaneofXistence says. “Between the two of you, we’re nearly indestructible so hurry the fuck up.”   
  
“I’m comin’, I’m comin’. Hold your horses, man.”   
  
“While we wait, I gotta tell you guys about something,” Penny says. “So most of you know that LostInOz and I know each other in real life. What you don’t know is that I have the most massive crush on her.”   
  
BaneofXistence whistles and VampChief chastises him. “Don’t be crass.”   
  
“Don’t be crass? I’m whistling ‘cause baby girl is gonna get some, not because I have some girl-on-girl fantasy. Believe me,” BaneofXistence says emphatically, “I’m not into girl-on-girl or even girl-on-guy. Catch my drift?”   
  
“Guys, guys," Penny scolds. "It’s okay. Bane, I had no idea so from one queer to another--virtual high five. And Chief, thank you for your acceptance and for quickly jumping in to defend my honor.”   
  
“‘Course,” VampChief replies.   
  
“Okay, so I sorta want to feel things out," Penny continues, "but I’m a chicken and I need to start small. I figured I could try to send her gifts through the game. So what are your ideas for romantical, fake online role playing gifts?”   
  
A chorus of, “Uhhh,” fills the chat as several men try to think of something.   
  
“Seriously?” Penny groans. “Okay, Angeles, you’re being quiet. What gift would set your virtual heart aflutter?”

After he thinks about it for a beat, he says, “A psijic spectral steed,” referring to a ghostly purple mount that is rare but highly coveted. To gift one or to be gifted one could be seen as a high honor or incredibly romantic. For an online game, anyway.  
  
“What?” VampChief scoffs, which prompts several people to speak up and talk over one another until Impala finally breaks it up and says he’s ready to raid.   
  
Despite the stress that comes from playing with multiple people, and thus multiple personalities, Cas relaxes into this virtual world that he and his online friends have created. Win, lose, fight, die--it’s all make believe and he can forget about real life problems for awhile.   
  
After the raid, several people break off to focus on personal quests or to log off for the night. Some stay on the guild chat, some don’t. Castiel continues playing a solo quest but logs off of the group chat to wait for an invite from Impala for a private chat.

It was something they started doing not long after they met. At first, it was a means to strategize but they soon began confiding in one another until they’ve reached the point of their friendship where they basically know everything about one another, including things about their lives. The only thing they've been too afraid to broach is where they live and Dean has never asked to meet, so Cas doesn't ask either, even though he really would not be opposed.    
  
“Hey, Cas,” Dean says as soon they’re both logged on. “One of these days I might slip up and say your name in the guild chat.”   
  
“I hardly think it’ll matter at this point. All of us are probably miles and miles apart and, unless you’re secretly a serial killer, I doubt knowing my nickname is going to do much harm to me at this point.”   
  
“Wow, you’re a ray of sunshine today.”   
  
Cas sighs. “A very important merger fell through. Even though I wasn’t part of it, everyone in the office felt the resulting wrath of the CEO. I was counting down the minutes until I could get home and get on here...”   
  
“And hear my voice,” Dean jokes, chuckling at himself. 

Ugh. Dean has no idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think it's pretty obvious who is who but in case you're wondering:
> 
> 6impala7 = Dean  
> Angeles = Cas   
> CyberPenny = Charlie   
> VampChief = Benny  
> BaneofXistence = Max Banes  
> LostInOz = Dorothy
> 
> Fun fact: I came up with CyberPenny as play on Felicia's character, Codex, from The Guild and of Felicia playing Penny in Dr. Horrible's Sing Along Blog. Plus, she's a redhead.


	4. Mythology

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In an attempt to have a vacation for once, Sam and Dean take a detour through a sea life animal park on their way home. But the supernatural is never far from the Winchesters. This time it is the form of an enormous seal who sheds his skin and becomes human when he finds a potential mate in Dean. (Psst, basically it's a meet-cute and sex; very little plot.)
> 
> Not only am I posting this for my Promptober word, MYTHOLOGY, but this is also one of my SPNABO BINGO square MATING BITES.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Promptober word is MYTHOLOGY.  
> Rated EXPLICIT  
> Warning: DUBCON

I wrote a longer fic for this one and so I posted it separately from this Promptober collection. The fic is rated Explicit and it is a Selkie Cas fic.  
  
Check it out:  
  
[Fire on the Water](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16197344)


	5. Firefighter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a brief prompt/story about Dean's inner conflict regarding his soulmate. Dean lost his mother and his soulmate mark in a fire as a child. As a result, he became a firefighter because he wanted to help save other lives. He has no idea that this path will lead him directly to saving the soulmate he thought he'd never find. Dean suffers from low self-esteem due to the physical and mental scarring. While he wants his soulmate more than anything, he also struggles with feeling worthy enough. 
> 
> The prologue is the narrative backstory to set up the resulting scenes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would consider this a more serious, heavy tone compared to the usual sweet, fluffy stories I tend to spit out. I need to flesh it out better but, again, this is writing practice and written in one day with little editing. Ends in a bit of an open end because I ran out of time.

**The Scars We Bear**  
  
Prologue  
  
Up until he turned thirty, Dean was wild and reckless. Of course, there was still adulting to do if he wanted a roof over his head and running water, but outside of his job he was busying blowing his money, meeting women, partying, staying out late at bars, gambling, and picking fights.

In fewer words, being young carried this sense of invincibility that he could do what he wanted, when he wanted, and damn the consequences.  Especially if those consequences stunted his own happiness. 

He played with the fire and danger of getting in trouble, relished in it even, fueled by this guilt that had been simmering within him from a young age. How could he possibly allow himself to be happy when Dean knew his soulmate couldn't be--when he knew that it was his fault that they'd probably never meet? 

Much of his carelessness ended, though, when Dean was celebrating his thirtieth birthday alone because everyone else had careers and families and _grownup_ lives. He was staring into a whiskey-filled shot glass while twenty-somethings dry humped on a dance floor behind him and he knew that he couldn’t keep going on like this. 

He figured he had two options: end it or better it.   
  
He decided that he wanted  _ more  _ than this and that he needed to get serious about his life. In an alcohol-soaked delusion he even considered just settling for someone, maybe a widow. They could start a family like everyone else seemed to be doing. 

Except that he still couldn’t get past this intense longing that he felt clear down deep in his bones for his soulmate, whoever she may be. Dean clung to a perverse loyalty for this complete stranger, choosing to remain a bachelor as a sort of self-inflicted punishment. If she had to be alone because of him, then he would, too.   


But that didn’t mean he couldn’t put his immature ways behind him and turn his life around in other ways. Instead of focusing so much on ruining himself, he focused outward on how he could help others. 

After that sobering thirtieth birthday, Dean followed his childhood dream of becoming a firefighter. 

His reasons were very personal. He wanted to try to save people from having to go what he went through.   
  
When he was only four-years-old, he not only lost his mom to a house fire, but he suffered from third-degree burns over most of his right arm during his escape.

Dean had been running with his arm pressed against his eyes to shield it from smoke and flame so most of the damage was confined to the tender underside of his forearm and the outside of his elbow.    
  
He was so young when it happened that he couldn’t recall the trauma or the recovery. He would later have aches and pains, the scar tissue bothering him with any extreme temperature changes, steam and extreme cold being the worst.

As a very young and naive child, it didn’t occur to him to cover it up until he got a little older and kids started calling him a freak and ugly. He grew self-conscious and he began wearing long sleeves, sometimes several layers regardless of how hot it would be outside. He got so good at hiding it that by the time he reached high school none of his friends even knew that Dean was damaged.   
  
High school was also the time when everyone became obsessed with their soulmate marks and they really began to notice that Dean wouldn’t show his. Everyone else was showing theirs off in the hopes that someone would know someone who had the same design. It felt like a day wouldn’t go by without  _ someone  _ teasing Dean for being a prude for refusing to show his mark.

It made him uncomfortable. He didn’t want everyone to know about his burns but he knew that he needed at least one ally to help relieve the burden of his secret. He had to confide in someone else that wasn’t his brother. 

Sam knew. Of course, he did. But Sam was in middle school at the time and wasn’t thinking seriously about soulmates like seniors did in high school. Dean didn’t feel that Sam would understand a lot of the turmoil that was beginning to settle in Dean’s stomach like a lead weight, all because it was unavoidable that Dean would let his soulmate down.   
  
So he told the only person he could trust, Benny, his best friend. Benny reacted much like Dean expected: with quiet acceptance. He also wasn’t treated any different unless he counts the moments when Benny acted like his personal watchdog. If anyone were to bring up Dean’s marks, Benny would redirect the conversation so seamlessly that the person would completely forget that they’d ask Dean about it in the first place.

It wasn’t like Dean didn’t know what his mark was supposed to look like--to an extent. There was a photo of him as a toddler but the image wasn't clear enough so it just looked like a mass of black on his chubby little arm. And one time during Freshman year his dad had vaguely described it.

The fact remained that Dean didn’t know the intricate details of the full pattern, the proof almost completely erased from his right forearm save for the very outer edge of the mark that rested just inside his elbow, and his father dead and gone before Dean could think to ask his dad to try and sketch it.    
  
All Dean knew was that the filigree and swoops were said to very closely resemble angel wings.  
  
\---------------   
Three Years Later  
\---------------   
  
Medics surround an unconscious, soot-covered man, calling out stats and stabilizing him while Dean stares down feeling completely at a loss. 

This tenant was pulled from the burning building and is lying supine on the ground with both of his wrists exposed, his left arm featuring a delicate brush of angel wings that start at his wrist and sweep up to his inner elbow. 

The shock really sets in when Dean realizes what he's looking at and he swears he’s suddenly not getting enough air, even though he’s desperately trying to suck in oxygen through the self-contained breathing apparatus that’s still hugging his face. 

He drops to his knees behind the medics and pulls off his helmet. Next goes his mask and he gasps for fresh air once his face is free. The upward motion and his sweat make his damp hair stick up like he’s been electrocuted, which is pretty damn poetic considering that’s how stunned he feels.   


There are other emergency personnel attending to the other residents of the condominium complex fire, treating them for smoke inhalation and minor skin irritation. Dean knows he should be doing his job and helping but he can’t bring himself to move away from this specific man’s side. 

This man is the only person to sustain serious injury because the man wouldn’t leave the damn building before he knew that all of his neighbors got out. 

Dean wraps a thickly gloved hand around his right arm, right over the small remnant of his soulmate mark where it's hidden beneath his black turnout gear. The mark is only slightly distorted from all the damage done to the skin around it but Dean still recognizes the matching edge on the other man’s arm. 

Seeing his mark in full detail across the other man's arm gives Dean what he can only describe as a sixth sense, like a phantom limb that burns and tingles where it should be on his own arm. He  _ knows _ this man is his soulmate.   
  


+++   
  


If Dean wasn’t a respected member of the fire department, he might’ve been turned away instantly when he couldn’t easily prove that the man they just took back to the ICU is his soulmate.   


“Alex, I’m tellin’ ya, he's mine,” Dean insists.   
  
Nurse Alex Jones sighs, tossing a file onto a massive stack of other files that sit on the wide desk of the nurses station. “Dean, I have to have documentation or proof. I can’t just hand over someone’s medical information.”   
  
Dean licks his lips. He gotten over a lot of the insecurities regarding his arm for the most part, and Alex is a nurse so she’s definitely seen her fair share of mutilated flesh, but it’s still hard to make that step and become vulnerable. But if he wants an update, he's gonna have to suck it up and show her.  
  
He’s still wearing his turnout gear so it only allows him to pull it up so far, just enough for her to see the bottom edge of his roughly grafted, angry looking skin.   
  
“I don’t have documents or good enough proof and it’s not like I wanna know his blood type. I just wanna know that he’s okay.”   
  
Hand propped on her hip, Alex looks between his eyes before she gives a firm, single nod. “Nothing personal and you can’t make decisions about his care, but I will give you an update.” She walks off down the hall 

Dean chooses to wait next to the nurse’s station. He’s restless and feeling more than a little unsteady. He can’t sit down in the waiting area and he refuses to leave until he knows that his soulmate is gonna live.

It feels like hours but in about forty minutes Dean can see Alex coming down the hall. She gives Dean the ‘okay’ sign as she approaches and Dean releases a long breath of air in relief.    
  
“You can probably come back up tomorrow,” she says when she reaches the nurses station, “and see if day shift will let you go in and see him. You could always pull the ‘concerned fireman’ card and say you’re checking up on a victim of a fire you responded to.”

Dean rubs a hand over his face tiredly. “Yeah, maybe.”   
  
“Maybe?” Alex says, perplexed. “Don’t you wanna see if he’s awake and tell him the good news?”

“Uh, thanks, Alex. For letting me know he’ll be okay,” Dean says, looking away guiltily. The fact is, he doesn’t think he has a right to stop by. Or more appropriately, he doesn’t deserve it. “I think I need to sleep on some things. See ya around.”   
  
He doesn’t sleep on it. In fact, he doesn’t sleep. He goes home and sheds his gear right inside the front door, takes a too hot shower that makes his scarred arm sting, and then slouches on the couch with a bottle of Jack.    
  
He’s got a few swigs in him before he gets up to find his phone in the mess of the clothes he left strewn in his foyer.    
  
“Dean?” Benny answers on the third ring. He sounds groggy but alarmed. 

“Hey, man,” Dean responds, flopping back down on his couch. 

“Is everything okay? What’s wrong?”

“Why’s somethin’ gotta be wrong to call?” Dean slurs. 

“It’s,” there’s a pause, “almost three in the mornin’ and you don’t exactly sound like you’re fit for church.” 

“I’m not goin’ to church,” Dean scoffs. 

“I mean you sound drunk," Benny drawls. "What’s going on? Is it Sam?”

“Nah, no. Sammy’s fine. He’s got his soulmate and he is just a-okay.” Dean swallows and then sighs incredibly loud into the phone. “I think I found my soulmate.”

In his mind, Dean can see the way Benny must scrunch his face when he asks, “But, how? I seen your arm…”

“I dunno, I just know. But maybe I’m wrong. I mean, I always thought my soulmate would be a woman, so I’m—you know what? I’m probably definitely wrong.”

“Don’t surprise _me_ if it’s a man,” Benny says and Dean almost finds comfort in hearing him say that, but that isn't Dean's big issue. “So did ya talk to him?”

“Ah, no,” Dean admits. “He’s at St. Francois.” Dean explains what happened. “He’ll prob’ly take one look at my arm and be disgusted.”

“Then he’s shallow, worthless garbage and not worth a second thought.”

“Or he won’t believe me.” Dean sighs again, laying back on his couch to stare at the godawful popcorn ceiling. “Or," he says forlornly, "he'll think I’m damaged goods.”

“Why don’t you talk to him and let him decide that, huh? You won’t know nothin’ until you talk.”   


“Yeah, maybe.”

“Stop drinkin’, go to bed, check on him later,” Benny orders. “Then call me and let me know how it went.”  
  


+++  
  
People are shooting Dean irritable glares because he can’t seem to stop bouncing his leg nervously. He keeps looking toward the doorway, waiting for a nurse to come get him. 

Finally, his name is called and Dean follows a middle-aged nurse to a semi-private room. She draws back a curtain that surrounds a bed that holds the man who he’s been told is Castiel Novak. 

“He’s still out of it,” she explains in the rushed cadence of a busy nurse who is eager to get to her other patients. “It’s so nice when the authorities come check on patients, especially when we can’t find the family.” She shuffles away and grabs the edge of the partition. “You’re welcome to sit as long as you’d like.”

The curtain is yanked with a sharp thwick and Dean sits rigidly in a hard bucket chair near the hospital bed. He spends the first few minutes staring at the lines that snake from machine to man before he looks at Castiel’s face. 

Castiel is intubated, his mouth mostly covered from the nose down, but Dean can admire the dark curl of eyelashes and the sweep of his rich brown hair. He scoots a little closer, afraid to say or do anything. Dean leaves that day without saying a word.   
  
On the second day Dean doesn’t sit down. He stands next to the bed and stares at the part of the soulmate mark that is visible with Castiel’s arms lying against the bed. His arm feels tingly and he absently rubs it through the long sleeve of his shirt.    
  
Cas--he decides to call him--is still asleep. Dean feels weird about doing this but he gently turns the man’s wrist and runs a finger over the dark grey lines. Lines that Cas probably has mesmerized from living with a perfect mark for a lifetime.    
  
On the third day Dean calls out of work citing that it’s for personal reasons. He’s allowed back to the ICU room without being told that Cas is awake.   
  
“Oh,” Dean says unintelligibly when he pulls the partition open, his gaze instantly meeting two vivid blue eyes. He stands there, frozen, the horribly patterned, pastel curtain still clutched in his hand.   
  
The man tilts his head curiously but his eyes crinkle a little at the corners from amusement.   
  
“Uh, hi.” Dean lets go of the curtain and takes an awkward step forward. “I’m Dean, one of the firefighters that was on the scene the other night. I--we just wanted to see how you were doin’. You kinda scared us, man.”

“I’m--I’ll be okay,” Cas says roughly, like sandpaper on a chalkboard.    
  
Dean takes another tentative step closer, then closer, eyeing the machines that are now humming more quietly. It looks like Cas only has the basics hooked up to him now, to measure his heart rate and whatnot.

“Okay, well, that’s good.” Dean clears his throat. “I should probably go, let my guys know you’re gonna pull through.”   
  
“Dean?” 

Cas’s left hand reaches out and grasps Dean’s right arm tightly before he can walk away. The contact is unwelcome and Dean yanks it out of Cas’ grip, clutching his arm to his chest, eyes narrowed and angry.   
  
“I’m sorry. Is that your injured arm? I didn’t know which…” Cas’ low, raspy voice trails off.   
  
“Whaddya mean my injured arm?”    
  
“Someone told me you got injured in a fire. I’m sorry if I hurt you.”   
  
Dean relaxes slightly. “It’s an old burn. You just caught me off guard, that’s all.”   
  
“Can I see it?”   
  
“W-why would you want to see it?”   
  
Cas ducks his head and twists his arm, offering it up toward Dean. “I felt you yesterday, fought to get my eyes open enough to see who was touching me and why, and--”   
  
Dean feels like his heart is going to beat straight out of his chest from embarrassment and terror. Not the horror movie terror, but the rejection kind of terror. The vulnerability kind of terror.    
  
“--and then the next thing I knew I was waking up alone.”   
  
“Ain’t nothin’ special about my arm,” Dean mutters, “And I just thought your mark was cool.”   
  
“Do you typically touch people’s marks like that? Because people don’t really do that unless they’re--” Cas’ brow furrows. “Unless they’re soulmates.”   
  
“Cas, I don’t think I can.”   
  
Cas’ mouth snaps shut and his eyes become such deep pools of sadness that Dean instantly regrets his words. But it’s better this way. Dean has a terrible past and ugly scars instead of a beautiful mark. He’s a nobody.

“Why? Can I know why? Do you have a family?”   
  
Dean closes his eyes, fingers fidgeting over the cuff of his sleeve. Before he talk himself out of it, he decides to just _show_ Cas why and get it over with. He drags the sleeve of his Henley up above his elbow.   
  
“Because of this,” Dean says, eyes still screwed shut so he doesn’t have to see Cas’ face when he sees that Dean is disgusting.   
  
He expects a gasp or at least a grunt of disgust but it’s quiet. There is so much nerve damage that he doesn’t know that Cas is gingerly trailing his fingers over the lumpy, misshapen skin until he opens his eyes and looks down. Cas is touching him so gently, reverently.   
  
“As you can see, we don’t match,” Dean says roughly.    
  
“Maybe not by sight, but can’t you  _ feel _ it?” Cas whispers. “Isn’t that what matters?”

A tear escapes the corner of his eye before he can stop it. Cas’ fingers reach the area of his wrist where he can feel the ghost of the touch that causes him to shudder.   
  
“And this part here matches,” Cas says, his hands moving back up to touch the small dark smudges of the wing tips.    
  
“Cas,” Dean sighs, taking his arm back and pulling the sleeve back into place. “This isn’t just about scars on the outside. I’m full of 'em on the inside, too, and those ones are prob’ly worse.” 

The echo of playground taunting and of his own father’s cutting insults, a lifetime of feeling left out, ugly, and different, the constant fear of being alone...

“Dean.” The way Cas says it is so sorrowful, the one syllable carrying a burden so deep.    
  
“So, I can’t. I can’t do that to you.”   
  
“You’re not doing anything to me,” Cas says almost angrily. “I’ve waited my whole life--” Cas narrows his eyes. “I’ve searched every database for you, sought out every mark of every person I’ve come across. And out of nowhere, here you are. And you’re more beautiful than I could even imagine.”   
  
Dean closes his eyes and presses his lips together tightly. This time he lets Cas take his arm when he feels fingers encircle his wrist.   
  
“We’re not meant to carry these burdens alone. That’s why everyone has a soulmate, a perfect compliment. Did you really believe I’d refuse you? Over this or anything else?”   
  
Cas releases him and Dean opens his eyes.   
  
“I just don’t want you to push me away before you’ve even given me a chance.”  
  
“And you want a chance?” Dean asks, daring to hope.   
  
“I do.”


	6. Victorian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jimmy Novak's family and church has been going to Mardi Gras every year for as long as he can remember. They're not there to have a good time, however. When Jimmy becomes fed up and decides to leave the safe zone his father has outlined for him, a beautiful stranger sweeps him off of his feet. No, literally. Vampire Dean kidnaps Jimmy because he's been waiting a very, very, very long time to find him again. 
> 
> (Yes, this is Destiel. Please read to the end.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt of the day: VICTORIAN  
> Rating: Teen+  
> Warnings: Dubcon

Jimmy hugs his stomach when a breeze blows in from the direction of the canal. It had been wet yesterday, the rain bringing in cooler temps, so he’s glad that he wore his favorite emerald green, cable knit sweater. It’s otherwise very fair weather for Mardi Gras, with clear skies and a forecast promising an average in the seventies. He finishes his coffee and gets up to throw it in the trash.

“James,” his father calls to him from his own table at Cafe Du Monde. Jimmy redirects his steps and walks over to Zachariah, who is sitting with other ministers enjoying powdered sugar-coated beignets and steamy cups of coffee as Jimmy just had. “You’ll be passing out tracts today.”

Tracts are small pamphlets that contain religious information in the form of personal testimony, guilt-inducing Scripture that implore people to repent, or scare tactics that threaten hellfire and brimstone. 

And passing them out means talking to strangers. Jimmy  _ hates _ talking to strangers. He hates that this approach insinuates he is pre-judging people, condemning those who may not even believe in their god.

In fact, Jimmy  _ envies _ these so-called sinners. He envies that they can be free. Free to drink, party, and have fun without their fathers breathing down their necks, correcting every misstep. He'd much rather observe them--or join them--and not hand them a tract that'll litter the ground the moment he turns his back.

But he can’t admit any of that out loud so he says a polite, “Of course,” and takes a small stack of the glossy bi-fold pamphlets that Uriel holds out to him. He’s prepared to walk away and get as far from his father as possible when his father stops him.

“And James? You may have just turned eighteen,” Zachariah’s voice carries an undercurrent of warning, “but you will stick to Jackson Square and stay with your group. Do not wander off alone.”

Jimmy gives a curt nod and joins the cluster of his family and church congregants standing around nearby so that they can break up into groups before setting out to ‘preach the Good News’.    
  
+++   
  


The afternoon and evening is a revolving display of outlandish costumes, bright makeup, flashes of bare skin, and loop after loop of Mardi Gras beads strung around the necks of very drunk, very happy party-goers. Music fills every street and spills out of every shop they pass.

As it grows darker people begin snapping glow sticks and lighting up neon jewelry. It’s a bizarre but beautiful display of whimsy and color. The only thing left to be desired, Jimmy thinks, are the smells. 

In few words, the aroma of the French Quarter on Mardi Gras churns the stomach. Vomit, piss, weed, and alcohol contend with body odor, perfumes, and foods being cooked by street vendors and restaurants. 

The odors don’t dampen the spirits of those gluttonously enjoying each and every lust of the flesh, debauching themselves on too much food, too much drink, and too much seduction and sex. 

Jimmy feels like an outsider and an imposition as he is jostled through the throngs of people that fill the streets. It’s hard to relate when he’s trying to pass out tracts that scold these consenting adults as if they’ll honestly take one look, be overcome by guilt, and fall to their knees in repentance.   
  
When they approach the St. Louis Cathedral right at the end of Jackson Square, the fine hairs on the back of his neck tingle. He shivers even though he isn’t cold and looks around for the cause. 

There are several tables set up just outside of the cathedral, draped with dark fabrics and littered with crystals and Tarot cards. He’s not sure the psychics and fortune tellers are what are giving him the creeps because he thinks they’re just gimmicks. This is more like he senses that he’s being watched. 

He’s so focused on carefully looking around that he loses track of Hannah and Anna, his twin cousins, and Balthazar, another cousin who has come in from out-of-town.    
  
They’re supposed to stick together but none of them  _ really  _ want to be here, at least not doing  _ this _ , the girls becoming more and more flighty while Balthazar is scoping out the women with the most beads in the hopes he’ll get flashed. The allure of the people and of the lively Jazz music and all of the festivities is too great a temptation to each of the young adults.   
  
He ends up back by the cathedral when he gets the text from Balthazar saying that all three cousins have ditched and to cover for them. All Jimmy wants to do at this point is throw the tracts away and go home. 

He's already been shoved several times, had beer "accidentally" spilled on him and he's pretty sure there's a new cigarette hole in his favorite sweater. He's pissy now on top of being hungry, and he really wants one of those blue-slushie things that people keep walking by with.

Taking a deep breath, fingers curling around the tracts, Jimmy starts walking past the church and toward Bourbon. 

Before he can make it all the way down the block, a very handsome, roguish man steps out of the crowd and appears before Jimmy as if in a blink. The man's eyes shine, his canines sharp when he flashes Jimmy a smile, the woody scent of him like a beckoning finger that calls Jimmy to lean in closer...

"Interested in finding something more fun to do with your time?” the stranger offers and gives a pointed look at the tracts that Jimmy is wrinkling in a fist, slyly adding, "You look like you need it."

Jimmy hesitates. It would be better if he wasn’t alone and this handsome stranger may not even know it but he’s offering Jimmy deliverance. He's always been the good little sheep by outward appearances, but inside he's dying, suffocating under the church's thumb. He wants to say yes.

Compelled by his desire, jealous his cousins could escape without him, Jimmy agrees with a condition--because he doesn’t want to get found before the night is over.    
  
"Only if we can disappear.”    
  
It should make him nervous, especially when the man's grin grows wider, his green eyes alight with fascination, but Jimmy finds that he's not anxious at all. They'll be in public, around other people...

"I can make that happen," the young man promises solemnly. He reaches out a hand to Jimmy. "I'm Dean, by the way."

Jimmy places his palm against Dean's cool hand, shuddering when Dean reverently places his other hand over it, cupping Jimmy’s hand and staring at him like he's been given a great gift.

"I'm J--" is all he gets out before Dean intertwines their fingers together and turns, pulling Jimmy close to his backside as they disappear into the masses and into a new world.   
  


+++   
  


The club is packed.    
  
_ Thump-Thump-Thump-Thump-Thump _

The bass pounds against Jimmy’s ears and straight to his heart, his entire body pulsing in a quick-beat rhythm. Vibrations snake up his legs from the quaking floor, making his knees feel like pillars of jello. 

Dean is leading the way, his hand still cool while Jimmy’s grows damp. He has no choice but to follow close as they push through the mass of sweat-glistening bodies that are pressed together, moving as one to the techno beat - _flash-move-flash-move-flash-move_ in the flickering strobe lights hanging from the rafters.   

They’re swallowed into the crowd, pressed on all sides the further into the club that they go. Dean stops moving forward somewhere toward the back, roughly pulling Jimmy closer.    
  
It’s so unexpected that Jimmy’s chest collides against a solid back, his groin bumping into Dean’s ass. He braces himself from knocking Dean clear off of his feet by grabbing Dean’s hip with his free hand.   
  
Bodies close in around them or he’d move back, the music too loud or he’d apologize. But Dean doesn’t appear to mind considering that he’s guiding Jimmy’s other hand to his other hip and then holding them firmly in place while grinding back on Jimmy’s crotch.   
  
Jimmy goes still. He hardly knows how to respond or what to do. He’s never been this close to a girl, let alone another guy. He knows he shouldn’t be doing this. His church and God would condemn it, he’d be shunned and his father’s name would be ruined if anyone found out. 

But those thoughts vanish when Dean leans into him, guiding Jimmy’s hands under his black Henley and across the cool, muscled flesh of waist and stomach. The skin there is smooth and he can feel the soft tufts of hair that triail from navel and down to...

Jimmy isn’t sure if his heart is racing because of the music or from the thrill of doing something forbidden, but it beats hard and fast. And it seems as though it is pumping all of his blood straight to his dick. 

Embarrassed that Dean will feel the evidence that he’s becoming aroused--because he definitely shouldn’t be doing that, especially with a man--he tries to move back but he bumps into whoever is behind him, accidentally bouncing back into Dean. Stomach muscles flex under his palms when Dean laughs. 

The beat changes and Dean turns in the circle of Jimmy’s arms. His hands are moved to Dean’s ass and he’s encouraged to squeeze the meatier flesh, pulling Dean closer. The solid line of Dean’s erection presses against his own and Jimmy’s breath hitches. He holds that breath, afraid to shatter the illusion that he’s really doing what he’s doing.   
  
Dean leans in close, pressing his lips near Jimmy’s ear. “You --ed a dr---k,” Dean yells and then laughs, pulling away enough to relieve the pressure between them.   
  
Jimmy lets out his breath, searching for Dean’s eyes in the flashing lights and neon colors. “What?” he asks, his voice lost to the bass and beating drums.   
  
“D-rink,” Dean emphasizes. He raises a hand to his mouth and makes the motion like he’s tipping a cup and taking a drink.    
  
Jimmy swallows and nods, letting himself be pulled through the crowd once again. He has only ever had alcohol once before, when he had snuck a drink of his mom’s wine when she had left the room to answer her phone. It had tasted like rancid grape juice and he hadn’t really cared to try alcohol again since.   
  
Until now.   
  
Dean takes him all the way to a corner of the club where two very large intimidating men are loitering before a door. Expecting to be turned away, Jimmy is surprised when Dean does nothing more than nod to them and they hold the door open.   
  
Jimmy doesn’t like the way the two men exchange smirks over his head as he follows Dean into a dimly lit lounge of some sort. Weird spots left by the flashing lights of the dance floor play across his vision as he adjusts to the darker room. Behind them, the door closes and cuts off the club music. Jimmy’s ears are buzzing from the sudden change in sound. There’s still music playing but it’s a more acceptable decibel and they should be able to talk loudly enough to hear one another.   
  
He sneaks glances around as they walk through, Dean still gripping his hand tightly even though this crowd is much smaller.    
  
There are people lounging all over, some of them applying a dark substance to their finger and sucking it off. Maybe some new street drug. Others are making out, kissing each other’s neck, and he’s pretty sure one couple is having sex on a chaise.   
  
“Um, hey,” Jimmy says loudly, suddenly very uncomfortable. He tries to tug his hand back. Dean’s grip tightens. “Dean?”   
  
“I thought it’d be easier to get drinks back here,” Dean says without stopping. 

Jimmy is led to a small bar off to the side of the room where another couple is getting really heavily involved. The man is sitting on a barstool, his legs spread, while a woman straddles his lap wearing only a bra and shorts so short that Jimmy can see a good portion of her buttcheeks.   
  
He looks away and Dean appears to not pay them any attention, rapping his knuckles against the bar counter.   
  
“Hey, Louie,” Dean greets the bartender, a heavy-set man who is covered in tattoos from the top of his bald head and over every inch of skin that Jimmy can see. “Whiskey, neat. And gimme a blue raspberry margarita.”    
  
“A… margarita?” Louie raises a brow and flicks his glance over Jimmy. When Dean doesn’t say anything, Louie shakes his head and says, “You got it, boss.”   
  
“I think you’ll like that better than the harder stuff,” Dean says peculiarly, pulling Jimmy close to his side. 

How Dean could possibly know anything about him is a mystery but Jimmy doesn’t question it. He takes his margarita when it’s passed to him and watches the bob of Dean’s Adam’s apple when he slams back his whiskey and swallows.

They return to the dance floor outside of the lounge and dance for several songs until Jimmy he has a stitch in his side. Every time he meets Dean’s eyes he feels a tingle zip down his spine, green eyes watching him earnestly, hungrily.    
  
After his third drink the world is reeling. He’s leaning back on the bar while Dean slowly licks a line of salt off of his neck before washing it down with a mouthful of tequila. People cheer and Dean helps Jimmy back to his feet, eyes darting to Jimmy’s lips.    
  
“Alright Ca--” Dean coughs roughly. “Sorry, uh, what did you say your name was?” Dean yells loudly, squinting at Jimmy with a strain around his eyes that hadn’t been there before.    
  
“Jimmy.”   
  
“Right. Jimmy.” Dean frowns but then seems to remember that Jimmy is watching him and flashes a winsome smile. He hitches his thumb toward the lounge. “Let’s go out the back.”   
  
“O--okay,” Jimmy agrees. He’s lost all concept of time and feels a pang of loss that their night is most likely winding down and he’ll have to come up with what to tell his father about where he’s been.

The same two men open the door at the back and this time Dean seems to be intent on walking toward an EXIT sign at the back wall that glows neon red but they’re stopped by a bearded man and a woman who looks like she stepped straight out of a Playboy with glossy blonde hair and a silver dress that barely covers her breasts and butt. 

“Hey, Benny,” Dean greets heartily. They still have to talk loudly in order to be heard. “Just the man I was hopin’ to run into tonight. And who’s this?”  
  
“This is Moira,” Benny says. “Moira, this is my buddy, Dean and..?”   
  
Instead of introducing Jimmy, Dean scowls and loudly exclaims. “Where’s Andrea?”   
  
Benny clenches his jaw. “Maybe we ought to have ourselves a conversation in private about this.”   
  
“Yeah,” Dean agrees. “Could you wait for me? I just gotta iron somethin’ out with Benny here.”   
  
Jimmy doesn’t like feeling left out but whatever they have to say is obviously private so he nods. The men move away, leaving Moira to walk off  in another direction and Jimmy stands there awkwardly.    
  
Jimmy decides to go over to a part of the wall set behind one of the large black speakers that are feeding the dancers their music. It’s like a pocket of quiet. He closes his eyes, feeling tipsy and unsteady, but his eyes fly open when he hears Benny’s voice. 

The other men don’t seem to realize that they’re in just the right spot to be overheard.   
  
“You cuttin’ it close, Dean,” he hears Benny say. “You even sure it’s him?”   
  
“I’ve been watching him every year for a decade. I wasn’t sure at first, until he got older, and the time is right. It’s gotta be him, Ben. They’re identical.”

“Whatever you say, Chief. You got to midnight tonight to find out for sure.”   
  
“You think I don’t know that?” Dean snaps. “And you were supposed to bring Andrea for the ritual.” 

Jimmy doesn’t know what to make of their conversation. Midnight. Ritual? What happens to him at midnight? And what does Dean mean that he’s been watching Jimmy for ten years? Will he be some sacrifice? Raped? Murdered?   
  
“Andrea didn’t want any part of it,” Benny insists. “So… Moira.”   
  
“You’re gonna settle for a random woman?” Dean asks incredulously.    
  
Suddenly sick with regret and terror, Jimmy pats his pockets for his phone to check the time. It’s not in its usual place and he wildly pats his other pockets but it’s not anywhere on him. He must’ve been pick-pocketed and was too busy to notice.   
  
“Right, like your pick is so great,” Benny scoffs. “You could have your pick, of anyone, in all these years. And he’s wearing an old man sweater, for Christ's sake. He’s--”   
  
“He’s perfect,” Dean bites out.”And you know why  _ he’s _ been chosen, why I’ve waited a hundred years.”

Jimmy panics. It hits him full force that crazy people have lured him here. He has to get the hell out. He slips quietly along the wall toward the exit and is nearly home free when a hand wraps around his wrist like an iron vice.   
  
“Leavin’ without me?” Dean asks. But he's not angry. When Jimmy looks over there's deep hurt evident in his eyes.  
  
“I really should get b-back,” Jimmy stutters. "I'm not feeling well and I need to go home."  
  
“I'm afraid I can’t let you do that,” Dean says grimly. There’s something wrong with his mouth. It’s like it has become swollen or he’s stuffed his upper lip with cotton. It distorts his voice and the way his mouth moves. “I need you to come with me.”  
  
“I don’t want to go with you.”  
  
Dean sighs. “And I really didn’t want to have to do this. I was hoping we’d have a good time and you’d come willingly.”  
  
“Hey, what’re you doing?” Jimmy asks, watching Dean pull a handkerchief from his back pocket. He tries to pull his wrist free but Dean is immovable. “Help! Hey, somebody, help me,” he starts to yell for someone in the lounge to come to his aid, clawing at Dean's hand.  
  
It irritates the other man and Jimmy gets pulled into Dean's chest, arms crushing him and holding him immobile.   
  
“Benny? A little help?” Dean calls out as he fights for Jimmy to stay still.   
  
Benny comes to Dean’s side and manages to get the handkerchief out of Dean's hand without Dean losing his hold on Jimmy.   
  
“Somebody, help _me_ ,” Jimmy yells, and he knows people hear him because they glance over at the commotion, some with disinterest while others watch with morbid curiosity. “What is wrong with you people?” he spits out.  
  
The fabric is folded carefully and placed over a vial of clear liquid that Benny has procured from somewhere, the bright red darkening to burgundy as it soaks up what Jimmy assumes must be Chloroform or similar.  
  
“I could just carry you outta here kicking and screaming," Dean hisses directly in his ear, "but I can’t have the locals and tourists getting in the way. So you’re just gonna go to sleep for a few minutes. Just until we get to where we need to go.”  
  
“You’re insane,” Jimmy sneers. He thrashes and tries to get free but Dean holds on strong while Benny ties the soaked handkerchief around Jimmy’s nose and mouth.   
  
It takes a couple of minutes before he blacks out, Dean slowly lowering them both to the ground, eyes full of pity.  
  
And the next thing Jimmy knows is that he’s waking up in another room, this one alight with the flicker of dozens of candles. There’s no club music, no dancers, no bartender serving drinks. It's warm and solemn and dare he say… sacred. 

He lifts his head and can see that he’s tied to a large bed framed by intricately carved, rich wood. The decor around the room is old with its tarnished, gilded frames hosting black-and-white photos, faded velvet stretches across an old Victorian couch, and there's wall sconces instead of modern lighting.   


A door creaks open somewhere and Jimmy begins struggling against the ropes that bind him to the headboard and foot-board.   
  
Unsurprisingly it's Dean and he stands at the end of the bed, watching Jimmy. He sighs. “I didn’t want it to happen this way,” he says in that strange muffle. He pulls his lips back, large fangs stretching down to sharp points.  
  
“You’re--you’re a--” Jimmy stammers, staring.  
  
“I know you don’t understand now,” Dean says, “but you  _will_ thank me later, Cas. You’ll thank me when you remember.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: I met my husband on a Mardi Gras missions trip waaaaaay back in 2004 and we got married eight months later. We really did pass out tracts (among other things that I don't include in this fic because it's SUPPOSED to be short). It's something I really hated doing so I relate very much to Jimmy here, lol. So I have been to New Orleans. My memory is a little fuzzy on some details but I hope I painted a believable picture of the general ambiance of Mardi Gras. It's basically one big, smelly party. And sometimes, kinda scary.
> 
> Also, there are secret societies in New Orleans in real life, including for vampires. I don't know anything about them so anything I may write about them is a guess or made up. The "lounge" in this fic was basically a vampire den and why no one was going to help Jimmy (errr... Cas?!). 
> 
> ~ TheTwistedWillow ~


	7. Harry Potter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I blame Castielslostwings for this one. She threatened me on pain of death to include something about Dean referring his dick as a Nimbus 2000 (some powerful magickal broomstick in Harry Potter) and it leads to Cas and Dean whipping out their dicks to determine who has "the sweetest ride". 
> 
> Honesty disclaimer: I don't know Harry Potter. You don't need to know Harry Potter to read this, except to know that this damn Nimbus 2000 broomstick is supposedly something special; and I'm using it as a euphemism for dicks and anal sex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Promptober word: HARRY POTTER
> 
> Rating: Explicit. They're no penetrative sex (hey, go slow, this is Dean's first time with a guy) but I describe some things in enough detail that I feel it extends beyond the Mature rating.

 

This one came out long-ish so I've made it a separate work. You can read it here.  
  
[Sweet Ride](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16230491)  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

 


	8. Rockstar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean accidentally grabs someone's ass in public. Oops.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Promptober word: ROCKSTAR  
> Rating: Teen+

One would think that Kalamata olives would be stocked with all of the other olives and pickled items in a grocery store. But, no. They’re ‘exotic’ so they’re in some obscure ‘International’ section of mismatched food stuffs. Dean feels equal parts triumphant and perturbed when he finally finds the stupid jar of overpriced fancy olives that Michael insists on having.

And that’s the kicker. Not only are they enormous but they cost triple the amount of the regular green ones. Ya know, the green ones that every _normal_ person in America eats. IF they even eat olives. Money, man. 

Armed with his finding, Dean stalks past the aisles, and darts past carts and shoppers, to try and find his boyfriend who isn't where he said he'd be. He's just about to give up and wait by the checkout when he finally sees him in aisle seven. He's crouching down to reach something far back on a low shelf, his dark crown of hair somewhat obscured by his hunched shoulders.

Dean nods politely to an elderly lady as he makes his way around her to get to Michael. It seems like everyone in the store needs something in this aisle _r_ _ightfuckingnow_ because it’s crowded.   
  
When he reaches Michael, the other man is still bent down looking for something so Dean--never one to idle--holds up the jar of olives and kills time by reading the label about how healthy and tasty and--blah-blah-blah--the Greek olives are compared to plain old respectable pimento-stuffed olives.

"These things look like cat testicles," Dean decides, giving up on trying to find any merit in them.   
  
And then several things happen in such quick succession that no one can blame Dean for what happens next.   
  
Dean turns around to dump the jar into their cart but their cart isn’t there. Behind him, Michael shoots to his feet. And then a toddler pushes past Dean, the mother right behind him, so Dean jumps out of her way and into Michael’s side, automatically wrapping an arm around Michael’s back in order to steady them both.

Dean huffs a little and pulls Michael more tightly against his side even though Michael hates public displays of affection. And just because Dean likes to get a reaction out of him, he slides his hand downward and cups Michael's ass, giving it a hearty, suggestive squeeze.   
  
Michael makes a strange, choked sound.

"Almost got bulldozed by Babyzilla. That was close,” Dean laughs as he watches the mother-child duo race down the aisle but the sound abruptly dies in his throat when he looks over into unfamiliar, startled blue eyes. He yanks his arm back. “Uh, you are _not_ my boyfriend."

A gruff, husky voice replies, "No. No, I'm not."

Dean's eyes drop to the name-tag pinned to the guy's shirt--Castiel--and back up. Dean can’t believe he just fucking molested a store worker. A really, really attractive one at that, who looks to be about his age.  
  
One who has a rosy hue of a blush filling out his cheeks beneath day-old stubble, lake-blue eyes that Dean could easily drown in, and long fingers that clutch a can of... infant formula?

The store intercom buzzes overhead, interrupting the light music that's always playing. "Castiel to register two with the Similac," an annoyed voice snaps before the intercom clicks off and the music continues.

"Uh, sorry, man. I wasn't trying to sexually harass you. Honest mistake."

The man swallows hard and flashes Dean a tight smile. "I won't tell if you don't," he says quietly, hurrying away. Dean watches as Castiel walks off, right past Michael, who is turning their cart into the aisle.

"Dean? Why are you in the _baby_ section? You're not going to find the olives here. Jesus, how hard is to find one damn thing?" Michael snaps. The cart approaches with a limp from a wobbly wheel. "I've gotten ninety percent of the fucking list on my own, thanks.”

"Calm your tits,” Dean replies, unperturbed. He’s used to Michael being uptight, easily stressed by something as mundane as grocery shopping. “Found your weird food which, by the way, you're welcome.”

"Could you be more crude?" Michael complains, turning around and leading the way to checkout. "Don't say 'tits' in public."

"Yeah, actually, I could be more crude," Dean says honestly, catching up in long strides and dumping the jar on top of a loaf of bread by mistake. It rolls off and clanks against the metal beneath. Michael doesn't notice, thankfully. Dean wouldn't hear the end of it.  
  
But that’s when Dean notices his Rockstar are gone. “Uh, where’s my energy drinks?”   
  
“They’re terrible for you.”   
  
“Well,” Dean drawls, “I don’t think I asked you.”

"I don't understand you, Dean. You’re like a child. Are you incapable of acting like an adult? Would it kill you to curb the sarcasm, the jokes, and just... everything? For five minutes?"

Dean draws in a deep breath and holds it, clenching his jaw, silently counting to ten. He shoves his fists into his jacket pockets and exhales slowly when he reaches the end of the count.

Michael is complaining about long lines as they pass by the busy checkout lanes and Castiel passes by them again, eyes glancing between Michael and Dean and quickly looking away.

It’s so brief but it causes flutters in Dean's stomach and his heart skips a couple of beats. He won't deny that the guy is hot, totally his type, but he's still embarrassed that he groped him like that.

Hell, he's lucky he didn't get his lights punched out. He wasn't even shoved away. Straight guys tend to react in a more volatile manner when another man touches them in public like that.

Michael and Dean finally pick a lane behind a couple of families who have very full carts, to Michael's annoyance. Dean looks over in the direction that Castiel had walked as he contemplates Castiel's reaction.

Cas, Dean quickly dubs him, is straightening an end-cap. And like he can sense Dean watching him, he looks over. Straight at Dean. Like he knew exactly where Dean was standing in the midst of chaotic shoppers.

Ah fuck. He can practically still feel Cas against his side, the dip of his back and curve of his ass. Now that his brain is mostly back online, he recalls Cas had smelled amazing. Like fresh cut pine and cinnamon.

Dean frowns and has to remind himself that he has a boyfriend. And he’s the loyal type. He's with someone. He's with...

"Goddamnit, Dean. Quit daydreaming and help me unload the cart."

Dean tears his eyes away from Castiel and turns back to his boyfriend, forcing a smile into place.  
  
  
+++  


Cas is still trembling when he gets to his apartment, shutting the door behind him and leaning against it to catch his breath.  
  
“What are you grinning about?” Balthazar asks, poised over a cutting board with a glinting Chef’s knife.   
  
Biting his lip and pushing away from the door, Cas debates confiding in his cousin. Balthazar is visiting for the weekend for a family reunion that Cas isn’t all that thrilled about attending.   
  
But Zar doesn’t live around here so it should be alright to confide in him and Cas explains what happened at work earlier while Balthazar peels and dices potatoes.   
  
“He grabbed your ass?” Zar asks, breaking out into a grin. “Cassie, you dog.”   
  
“His grip was very nice. But the point remains that he mistook me for his boyfriend. And, Zar, you don’t understand the full extent of it. I have been eyeing this man from afar since last year.”   
  
Zar’s knife slips and he sputters. “What on earth would make you do that?”   
  
“I don’t know. Don’t you ever just like someone? Admire them from afar?”   
  
“No,” Zar deadpans. “I see someone I want to fuck and I go ask them if they want to fuck. The end.”   
  
“Well, he has no idea who I am. Until today, I’d never spoken to him. Every time he’s come into the store, I’d work in the back or find something to do anywhere that he wasn’t.”   
  
Zar frowns. “That is the absolute stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. And the opposite of getting to know someone. Why would you torture yourself? Why not talk to him?”   
  
“Because, up until now, I thought he was straight. You know how carefully I have to tread the water and hope I don’t end up pissing off a violent homophobic jerk.” It’s Cas’ turn to frown. “But it doesn’t matter because he’s got a boyfriend. A very nice looking one, if you want my opinion.”   
  
“Ah, which he mistook you for,” Zar says. “Point Castiel.”   
  
“I’d never seen him up close before. He smelled good, too. Like leather and bay rum.”   
  
“Ugh,” Zar fans himself, “the estrogen in here is getting stifling.”   
  
Cas bursts out laughing. “Oh, shut up.”   
  
Nothing can burst his bubble right now. He’ll never forget the scent of him, the color of his eyes, the spattering of freckles on his friendly face… the feel of the man pulling him close, without hesitancy, in a very crowded and public space. The breadth of the man’s hand on his backside still burns. 

But then reality shifts and Cas sees more clearly. The man of his dreams does those things with his _boyfriend_. None of that was meant for Castiel. Maybe something can burst his bubble after all.

  
+++  
  
  
“Which tie?”   
  
Sam folds his arms over his chest and scowls. “A tie, really? That’s not you, Dean. I don’t understand why you do anything for Michael.”   
  
“It’s his family reunion party thing. I gotta go in something other than ripped jeans and a flannel.”   
  
“Yeah, but ripped jeans and flannel are who you are.”   
  
Dean rolls his eyes. “I’m not what I wear. Besides, if you were going to Eileen’s family thing and wanted to impress them, you’d do what you needed to do. Like wear a tie."  
  
"It's one thing to do it because it's a business meeting or a formal get-together. But this is a  _family_ reunion. You should be going comfortable, not in," Sam waves a hand up and down at Dean's clothes, "this."   
  
Dean grits his teeth. They'll never stop arguing at this rate. "Which. One?” He holds up two ties: a shiny ice blue and a checkered black-and-gray.   
  
“Blue. The other one looks like it’s for a funeral. Actually, now that I mention it, wear the black-and-gray.”   
  
“Hardy har har. You’re a regular comedian,” Dean jokes. He wraps the blue tie around his neck and walks into his bathroom to tie it in front of a mirror.   
  
Sam follows. “I don’t know why you have to impress any of them at all. And it’s not like you’re married into his family and obligated to go.”   
  
“Are you jealous, Sammy?” Dean asks, lifting his chin and fumbling with the tie. He glances over at his brother in the mirror.   
  
Sam huffs. “Hardly. I just want you to be happy and you don’t seem happy. You’re constantly stressed and constantly trying to change yourself to fit him. What does he ever do for you?”   
  
Dean’s brows draw close and he almost chokes himself when he roughly adjusts the knot on his tie. Michael does… plenty of stuff for Dean. Like…   
  
But he…   
  
Um…   
  
“Whatever, man. This is the first real relationship I’ve had in years. Can’t ya just be happy I’m working at it?”   
  
Sam holds up his hands in defeat and walks out so Dean finishes getting ready. The last thing he does before leaving is pick up the bottle of cologne Michael had given him, crooning about how it was his favorite. It’s a little on the rich, old man side for Dean but he dabs some on and wrinkles his nose, waiting for the initial shock of the scent to dissipate.   
  
Looking in the mirror, he hardly recognizes himself. He’s in a suit, hair slicked over to one side with so much product it’s glued together as one piece. Hell, he doesn’t even smell like himself. He looks like a mortician. Kinda feels like one, too, even with the bright blue at his throat.   
  
“It’s just for tonight. For Michael,” he adds firmly.   
  
Dean tries to not think about what Sam said but his brother's words whisper to him as he grabs his keys and goes out to his car. Just what, if anything, does Michael like or do that is in any way similar to Dean?   
  
Michael doesn’t touch the Impala, would probably never go camping or hiking or even out for a day on the lake. He wouldn’t wear plaid anything, not even if Dean begged. And probably wouldn’t wear a scent Dean requested. Something like spices and fresh cut wood…   
  
But opposites attract right?   
  
God, he wishes his mom were around so he could ask her advice about these things. His knowledge on relationships is pretty limited and mostly comes from soap operas and reality T.V.   
  
But he can't change the past. All he can do is get in his car and follow the directions that Michael had given him. Michael has been pretty stressed out about the whole shindig--hence the pissy grocery run that Dean helped him with--so Dean hurries to his side as soon as he’s let into the mansion.   
  
“Wow, this place is," Dean looks around in amazement, "wow.”   
  
Michael smiles tightly and whispers out of the side of his mouth, “Pretend you’re not a redneck hillbilly for the night, okay? For me? Don’t ooh and aah over every damn thing. Everyone will think you’re either the help or here to steal the silverware.”   
  
Dean is stunned by Michael’s brash words. Dean knows that he can be a bit of an uptight asshole and usually brushes off. But these words are a little too close to home, and to what Sam had warned him about not half an hour ago. Dean finds himself wanting to get away.  
  
“Uh, yeah, of course. I’m just gonna, uh, go get a drink.”   
  
“Bring me a white wine while you’re over there. I want to go say hello to my uncle, Zach.”   
  
Dean forces a smile and steps around the people milling about in dazzling jewels and suffocating perfumes. Everything reeks of power, money and influence. He never thought it’d smell so disgusting.   
  
“Can I get a beer and whatever is your nicest white, please?” Dean asks at the open bar. While he waits, he slowly looks around at all of the faces he doesn't recognize until they land on a face that he does. Right there, at the end of the bar, is the man from the grocery store.  
  
In fact, Castiel pops one of those obnoxious Greek olives in his mouth when Dean reaches his side.   
  
“Oh, hey. Cas right? I’m such an idiot that I didn’t even give you my name after manhandling you the other day. I’m Dean.” He holds his hand out, curling his fingers around Cas’ warm hand.   
  
“You know, they may look like testes but they don’t taste like them,” Cas says unexpectedly.   
  
It takes Dean a few seconds to figure out where the hell that came from and then he laughs, remembering the first thing he ever said to Cas. Dean leans toward him and drops his voice. “How would you know? Have you tasted many testicles?”   
  
Cas lifts one brow and stands to his feet. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” he says coyly, voice so rich and husky it makes Dean feel weak in the knees. Cas brushes past him, the barest of touches of their shoulders.   
  
“Your drinks?” the bartender says.   
  
“Oh, right, thanks,” Dean says, grabbing the glass of beer and flute of wine before finding his way back to Michael’s side.   
  
“Who were you talking to over there?” Michael asks, his tone low and threatening.   
  
“Huh, guess he must be someone in your family. I didn’t ask,” Dean says, grateful he doesn’t have to lie. He feels kinda guilty. He was flirting with Cas without a thought to being here with Michael.   
  
“Well, stay away from him,” Michael says darkly, even as he smiles at everyone in the room, belying the vehement tone he’s using with Dean. “I don’t like the way he was looking at you.”   
  
Dean doesn’t know what to think of the possessive ownership that Michael seems to think he has with Dean but there isn’t time to dwell on it. They make their way around the room, talking about boring politics and business matters with Michael’s affluent family.   
  
As the night drones on, Dean feels more and more like he’s suffocating. He just wants to call it a night, shower the gunk out of his hair and wash away the old man cologne. Deciding he’s fed up, Dean does just that, begging leave in front of some of Michael’s cousins on purpose so that Michael won’t make a scene.   
  
He can see the glint of warning in Michael’s eyes even as Michael smiles like he doesn’t have a care in the world. It’s really disconcerting and the seeds of doubt that Sam has been planting take root. Dean gets the fuck outta there.  
  
  
+++  
  
  
“He’s dating _Michael_?” Zar asks, peeking around the corner to watch Dean and Michael. “From what I’ve heard, Michael is the worst, Cassie. I can see why Dean caught his eye, though. He’s working his way up the ladder and everyone knows you get there faster with someone pretty or influential on your arm, to make you look more serious about life, make you seem older and more mature.”   
  
“But with another man? Is that not still frowned upon?” Cas refuses to look into the room again, where Dean is with Michael. Last he saw they stood together but weren’t touching. Dean seemed unhappy about something but was making himself smile, his genial expressions forced instead of natural.   
  
“Oh, Cassie, get with the twenty-first century. Gay marriage is legal and politicians and businessmen are coming out of the woodwork. But, I will bet you a hundred grand that Michael isn’t even gay. Dean just adds to his image.”   
  
“People do that?”   
  
“People do all sorts of things to make it. Now, not many do _this_ . Usually it’s some other kind of scandal, but I just have this feeling that they’re up to something.”   
  
“ _They're_ up to something? You think Dean and Michael are trying to create a scandal?" Cas scowls. "Dean doesn’t seem the type.”   
  
Zar quirks a brow at him. “Honestly, you’re saying this when you’ve said less than twenty words to the man. How do you know what type he is or isn’t?”   
  
Cas sighs. “I don’t know. I'm done with tonight. If you’re okay here, I’m going to head back to the apartment. I know you came all the way out to see everyone.”   
  
“Don’t worry about me, chap. I can get my way around.”   
  
Cas goes outside, hands stuffed in his pockets. He wore jeans and a nice button down. He feels completely out of place with his well-to-do family. Even Dean had worn a suit, when he’s always seen him at the store in casual clothes.   
  
The mansion behind him is well lit but Cas stops in the middle of the expansive lawn and stares up at what few stars he can see. He doesn’t know how long he stands there, hoping for a shooting star to flash by, when he feels a presence next to him.   
  
“What’re we looking at?” a deep voice asks.   
  
Cas almost gives himself whiplash when he looks over. It’s Dean. And he’s staring up at the sky like he's trying to figure out what Cas is looking for, or maybe he's trying to look for the same. Something to wish on.  
  
“Constellations,” Cas says after a lull. “Maybe a falling star. Hard to see anything with all the lights on down here, though.”   
  
He looks back up and breathes in deeply. Gone is the leather and bay rum scent he has come to associate with Dean, replaced by something Cas’ grandfather might wear. It's a little off-putting, like Dean is trying to fit a mold that was never meant for him, but Cas says nothing.   
  
“Well, I'm heading home. It was nice to see you, Dean. And meet you properly.”   
  
Dean chuckles and it’s throaty, vibrating straight through Cas’ chest. “Yeah, sorry again. For… ya know.”   
  
“Really, it’s alright. You don’t have to apologize.” Really. Really, really don’t apologize.   
  
Dean smiles slowly but then shakes himself a little, his smile fading. “I’m going home, too. I can’t wait to get out of this monkey suit.”   
  
“And into your birthday suit?” Cas asks with a smirk. His mouth drops open when he realizes what he just said. “I’m sorry, that was really inappropriate. You’re apparently dating one of my cousins. I shouldn’t have--”   
  
“It’s alright. Don’t sweat it. Guess this can make us even?” Dean winks at him and Cas feels his insides melt. “And between us?” Dean lowers his voice. “Yes, my birthday suit. Have a good night, Cas.”   



	9. 1920's Era

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by The Great Gatsby, but not a retelling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt word: PROHIBITION/1920's ERA  
> Rating: Mature  
> Warnings: Affairs/Adultery

Everything glimmers gold. From the effervescent champagne to the tinsel streaming down from gilded chandeliers, and the brass horns of the live jazz band to the sequined dress that hangs from Amara’s frame. Dean hasn’t seen so much shine in one place--and he has seen some shine in his day considering he’s married to ‘ _new money_ ’ and there’s always a good time to be had somewhere.

“Who’s throwing this party again?” Dean asks his wife, her slim arm tucked into his as they turn about in the foyer of a Gothic mansion that rivals any fine castle Dean knows.   
  
They squeeze past clusters of people who are dancing and laughing uproariously. Somewhere a piano plays an upbeat, jazzy tune in competition with the constant chatter of voices.   
  
“It’s all very mysterious,” Amara gushes, her hazel eyes sparkling under the hundreds of string lights that hang above them like stars suspended in the night sky. “I had, of course, been invited to the parties before--”   
  
“Part _i_ _es_ ?” Dean asks, leaning in to hear better, raising his voice to be heard. “You mean they’ve had more than one of these affairs?”   
  
The amount of money spent just for this one night alone as to be astronomical and they’ve only seen the drive and two rooms so far. Dean looks around trying to tally everything up and loses count. It’s incomprehensible.   
  
“Mmm, several. Every Saturday for months now. But they were always anonymous. Accepting an invite seemed irresponsible. Besides,” Amara adds, her sly tone carrying an undercurrent of secret, “I had been busy with other business that needed attending to.”

Yeah, _business_ . Which is code for Amara fucking her way across the Long Island and northeast coast of the United States. Not that Dean cares about that much. It just means he doesn’t have to do it.   
  
In fact, he’s counting on losing her at some point tonight to any number of the well-dressed, well-to-do men in attendance. For now, she’s content to acclimate within her husband’s presence until she finds something better to latch onto.   
  
“So, anyway, when the rumors began to spread that _these_ were the parties of the century,” Amara squeezes Dean’s arm in excitement, “and I was persistently sent invite after invite, I couldn’t exactly refuse any longer. It would be rude.”   
  
“Naturally,” Dean replies dryly. He honestly, as astonishing as it is to  doesn’t see the point in such lavish waste when the economy is just now recovering from the recession.   
  
“Dean, we _must_ find the host,” Amara insists, leading Dean to a table in the first ballroom they come across.   
  
Several bartenders--wearing black vests and bowler hats, their profession obvious by the white aprons tied about their waists--fill champagne coupes with golden liquor and stack them .   
  
Dean takes two and hands one glass to Amara like a proper gentleman. They watch the dancing for a moment. People tucking their knees together and kick up their feet, waving their arms swaying their hips.   
  
There isn’t enough drink to ease Dean into this pompous world that he still feels disjointed from, having been brought up scrounging for pennies and feeling his richest when he had ten whole dollars at any given time. But the liquor is flowing so he takes another coupe.   
  
“Oh, there’s Crowley.” Amara points off at any number of black suits across the room.   
  
Dean cranes his neck but he can’t see the other man and finds he doesn’t really care. He’s just arm candy until he’s not, so he smiles indulgently at her and takes a very long sip of his fizzy drink.   
  
Amara steps close and grips the lapels of Dean’s suit jacket. “Darling, I know that you’re not always comfortable at these parties so if you need to bow out early, I won’t mind if you take the car. I can find a ride home.”   
  
Oh, he’s sure she will.

Dean nods and takes another sip, the champagne stinging his sinuses. Amara’s hands slip away. She gives him a wide smile and disappears into the mass of shine and color.  
  
Dean spends the next hour people-watching and drinking until his steps begin to feel heavy like he’s wading through quicksand. There’s a set of enormous double doors that are flung wide open, people spilling out into a courtyard.   
  
There’s a spectacularly large in-ground pool that is filled with glistening water. People are swimming in it, fully dressed, and others linger around in their little cliques. But Dean focuses on a couple and watches them from afar.   
  
To that couple, they’re the only people in the world right now. Everything else is background noise. He is focused on her, she on him. They’re young and playful and flirty. She shakes her bobbed hair at something he says and laughs, the sound swallowed by trombones and piano and voices.   
  
The man says something again before he wraps an arm around her and jumps into the pool. They both come up--him laughing and her sputtering--her sequinned headpiece sliding forward on her forehead and obscuring her eyes.   
  
“You, jerk,” her voice rises loud enough for Dean to hear. But she’s not angry. She’s in love. She laughs and slaps at the water blindly in hopes of dousing the man while simultaneously pushing her headband out of her eyes with her other hand.   
  
Dean is overcome with such a profound longing that it physically pains him.    
  
Without warning, the sky behind the pool explodes with flashes of light. There’s a collective gasp from onlookers and then everyone erupts into whoops and hollers. Firework sparks sizzle in the air above as they die out.   
  
More fireworks shoot up into the air from somewhere unknown. They pop and crackle, bright sparkles that gracefully drift as they cool to ash and float away without ever touching the ground.   
  
“Beautiful,” a voice says at Dean’s side, “isn’t it?”   
  
He slowly looks over, not daring to believe. But it is. It’s him. As though Dean’s longing from only moments before conjured him into existence. He stares a little wide-eyed and even considers poking the man to see if he’s real.   
  
“I was hoping you’d come,” the man says in a deep timbre that Dean feels all the way to his core, the words racing up his spine and settling into his foggy, alcohol-soaked brain.   
  
“C-Cas?”   
  
The man before him is barely recognizable except for his face. The way Dean remembers was Cas being dirty from head-to-toe from all the labor he did for work, his thumbs tucked into his suspenders while he talked, his trousers covered in rough patches where they'd gotten worn through. Cas had also been scrawnier then because he was lucky to get a single meal some days.   
  
And now his hair is clean and combed, his face nearly smooth from a recent shave and he’s wearing a black tuxedo that is tailor-fitted to a much healthier body. A perfect little black bow is tied at his throat.   
  
More booms and pops fill the air and sparks shower down around them, temporarily illuminating Cas’ brilliant, azure eyes and Dean feels all of seventeen again, filled with promise and hope and... love.   
  
“Come with me?” Cas asks.   
  
Dean is afraid that maybe he came across some absinthe and doesn’t even recall it, that he’s merely imagining Cas. But he nods and agrees. He will go. Hallucination or not, he will go. Cas’ responding smile pierces him right in the heart and it bursts with a thousand memories.

The firework display distracts everyone so no one notices the two men disappear upstairs to a room that is sequestered far away from the goings-on. By the time they reach the door to whatever room Cas is directing them to, Dean has gotten over his initial shock.

It appears to be a study or a library of some sort. Perhaps a combination of the two. Cas allows Dean to enter first and closes the door behind them. The racket of the party is effectively reduced to a barely-there hum. Going from ear-numbing noise to the sudden quiet amplifies Dean's heartbeat and he can hear just how fast it's racing.  
  
Cas walks over to a short table that rests against a wall between two towering bookcases. He uncaps a thick, decorative glass decanter that is filled with a very familiar substance. “Whiskey?”   
  
“You know me,” Dean replies lightly.   
  
“Yes, I do,” Cas replies simply, holding out a crystal tumbler.   
  
Dean takes it, their fingers inevitably brushing because Cas’ hands engulf the glass with their enormity. In fact, everything about Cas right now appears larger than life and Dean doesn't even know where to begin.   
  
Dean drinks his down so fast his eyes burn. “So,” he clears his throat, “do you know the guy who lives here or do you make a habit of using his study and drinking his liquor?”   
  
Cas huffs, smiling into his tumbler as he takes in a mouthful and swallows, every minute movement caught by Dean’s intense gaze. “I do know the guy. I see him in the mirror every day.”   
  
“Wait, this is yours? This is _your_ party?”  
  
“Guilty. More whiskey?” Cas holds out the decanter. “And what do you think of this party?”   
  
“It’s, uh, loud. And bright.”   
  
“Hmm.” Cas blinks and looks away, setting his tumbler on a large oak desk. He walks around it, leans over it on his arms, and then looks up at Dean steadily. “And your life? What you do think of that?”   
  
Dean scoffs and wrinkles his nose. “Barely a hello and you want to ask personal questions? I haven’t seen you in three years? Four?” More like three years and seven months, but who’s counting?   
  
“Do you want a proper hello, then, Dean?” Cas asks lowly, pushing off the desk and coming back around.   
  
Everything around them goes fuzzy as Cas approaches, Dean’s world narrowed down to every fine detail of Cas. The line of Cas’ lips, the delicate cleft in his chin, the errant bit of hair that has rebelliously slipped free from its careful styling.   
  
When Cas’ hand cups his cheek, Dean instantly presses his cheek into it and his eyes flutter closed. He exhales like he’s been holding his breath these last few years and he can finally let it go because he’s finally _home_ .   
  
Cas’ other hand comes up but Dean can’t open his eyes because he knows what he’ll see staring back at him and he can’t handle it. Not when he’s this drunk and this overwhelmed.   
  
He lets out another shuddery breath when, “Hello, Dean,” ghosts over his lips in a soft whisper. And then those lips press gently against his and rest there, like they were always meant to rest there, and have no intention of going anywhere any time soon.   
  
As hard as he tries not to, Dean breaks first. Twin tears slips out of the far corners of Dean’s eyes and Cas gently rubs them away with his thumbs.   
  
Almost angrily--at himself and for himself--his throat rumbles with a noise of frustration and then he’s cupping Cas’ face in return to prevent him from pulling away. He deepens the kiss and pours every bit of love and emotion into it for all of the time he's lost.   
  
Dean’s senses become saturated with Cas. Even with this wealthy persona, even with the whiskey--or maybe it’s especially because of the whiskey--he still smells and tastes just like Dean remembers.   
  
Cas’ hands wander around to the back of Dean’s neck and shoulders. He can feel Cas plucking at the suit jacket but it doesn’t go anywhere. Dean _wants_ it to go somewhere before he’s sober enough to let logic dictate his choices. But Cas breaks away and Dean opens his eyes.   
  
“I missed you,” Cas says brokenly.   
  
“I know,” Dean replies huskily, still trying to recover his voice. “Me, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, I'm sorry. Because these are a few small scenes of a much bigger story, let me just say that inspired by The Great Gatsby does not mean my story follows that story whatsoever. I only took a few elements that I liked in the book and built a completely different love story that WILL have a happy end.
> 
> There is history between Dean and Cas and a separation (obviously), there was a marriage of convenience, and now a reunion. There will be an argument, choices and resolution. 
> 
> But for Promptober? This was all I got written today. I had a frustrating day, to be honest. I had so much dialogue going on in my head whenever I was driving or doing something where I couldn't write it out... and then I'd forget the dialogue the moment I sat down to type it out. Trying to remember it has resulted in a mess of notes that don't make sense... yet. 
> 
> I hope you at least enjoy the imagery and emotion that this short drabble tried to emote. 
> 
>  
> 
> ~TheTwistedWillow~


	10. Mythology/Coffee Shop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Couples are disappearing and the Winchesters are here to solve the case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Promptober word: MASHUP DAY = MYTHOLOGY + COFFEE SHOP   
> Mashup means I get to choose two previously used themes and mash 'em together.   
> Rating: Teen+

There was a time when Sam didn’t understand why adults glugged coffee like their lives depended on it. And then he discovered its addictive, energy-inducing powers while trying to stealthily help out on a case as a pubescent boy. 

From then on coffee has seemed to be the only thing to effectively keep him from becoming comatose from exhaustion. With all of their late nights and long hours, Sam drinks more coffee than he eats actual food. Which is ironic considering that Dean has this unfounded idea that Sam is some health guru who eats tofu and polenta at every meal. 

It’s especially ironic that️ for as much coffee as he does drink, he’s gotten as tall as he has. Isn’t there some saying about coffee stunting growth?

Well, that doesn’t matter. Right now he’s got more important matters at hand. Couples have begun to go missing in Springfield, Illinois and all signs suggest it might be witchy foul play. 

Any minute now, Dean and Cas will blow into the coffee shop but Sam isn’t going to wait for them. He sips at his scalding coffee and waits for his laptop to boot up so he can begin to look over the Intel that they’ve gathered so far. 

Twenty minutes into his intent combing of the details, his coffee mug half full and cool, a body flops onto the couch next to him. Sam knows it’s Dean before he looks up just by the sharp scent of his Brut aftershave, the same aftershave their dad used to use because it seems to be the one brand faithfully sold in every convenience store and gas station across America. 

“Okay, so get this,” Sam says without wasting breath. “The two couples have each been taken in five-day intervals. Which means that the next pair will go missing tomorrow if this witch isn’t done snatching people. We need to find the connection between them so we can try to figure out the next targets.”

When he doesn't get a response Sam looks over to see if Dean is listening. Of course, he’s not. Dean is chewing his lip and glaring at something across the coffee shop. Sam looks around people to see what's going on and sees Cas... talking to the very attractive, raven-haired barista.   
  
She is leaning over the counter and smiling coyly over whatever Cas is saying to her. The position pushes up her tattoo-covered cleavage, accentuating its voluptuousness. 

“Dean,” Sam sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. They don’t have time for whatever unresolved tension is between these two knuckleheads. 

“Nah, I heard ya,” Dean says abruptly, snapping his attention away from Cas, probably realizing he’s been frowning and staring too long for guys who are ‘ _ just pals _ ’. “We gotta connect the dots, got it. Lemme see what you got so far.”

Sam passes the laptop over. “Today we’ll interview the Rodriquez and the Santiago families. Mario Rodriguez and Louisa Santiago were the last couple to go missing. I figured you and I could cover more ground if we split up and each take a family to interview. We need to retrace the couples' steps until we find the last people to have seen them.”

“So the standard stuff,” Dean says distractedly. 

“Here’s your coffee, Dean,” a just-woke-up rumble tumble voice grouses behind Sam. Cas must be in the mood to really test the limits of Sam’s trust, a steaming cup of fresh coffee passes over his damn head to Dean. 

Dean grunts his thanks as he takes it, nary a drop spilling on Sam, and Cas takes the empty armchair that’s next to the couch that the brothers are both slouching on. 

“Nothing for you?” Sam asks, noticing the lack of coffee in Cas’ hands. 

“Nope.  _ Somebody _ got too flustered to order,” Dean says a little too bitterly to be justified for a guy who sits back and doesn't make a move on Cas himself. No, he just watches other people hit on the angel instead and gets pissy. “I’m gonna hit the head and then me and you can do interviews while Cas sits pretty somewhere.”

Sam sighs again and begins gathering his stuff, slipping papers and his laptop into his slate grey messenger bag. 

“He thinks I’m pretty?” Cas asks suddenly with his familiar comical confusion. 

Sam is about to explain that it’s just an expression but no—this is just too perfect an opportunity to pass up. Normally he tries to avoid getting in the middle. But what’s the harm in nudging Cas closer in the right direction? Clearly someone needs to save these two from themselves. 

“I don’t think he would’ve said it if there wasn’t some truth to it,” Sam says casually, rising to his feet. “You should reciprocate. Flirt back a little.”

“I’m afraid all of my attempts go unnoticed.” Cas looks downtrodden but then looks to Sam hopefully. “Do you have any suggestions?”

“Well,” Sam considers the question for a moment, asking himself what he’d do if he was interested in someone. “It’s the small gestures that add up. And you gotta get personal. Start with compliments that will make Dean feel good.”

Out of his peripheral, Sam can see Dean sauntering back toward them from the far corner of the building. It’s just their luck that the morning rush has slowed down enough that the one barista is alone, wiping down an espresso machine. 

“Before we go, why don’t you go ask that girl for her number?”

Cas narrows his eyes suspiciously. “I don’t understand. Why would I do that?”

“Just—“ Sam grits his teeth and whispers through them before Dean can get too close to overhear, “trust me. Then come back here and pay him a compliment, maybe about his eyes. ‘Kay?”

Cas still looks perplexed but he goes to the counter before Dean reaches Sam’s side. “He decide to get coffee anyway?” Dean asks. 

“I think he's trying to talk to her again.” 

“Seriously?” Dean asks. Then he gets a little shifty and grumbles, “We don’t got time for this.”

The barista doesn't seem to have any problem with grabbing a coffee cup sleeve and a pen, glancing curiously between Dean and Cas every few seconds as she jots her number down.

“You have a great day now. See you soon,” she croons loud enough for them all to hear. She wiggles her fingers in a little wave, small star tattoos on her wrist twinkling from the motion. Cas stiffly turns around and pockets the Kraft-colored coffee sleeve. 

Sam finally dares to look at Dean’s face and finds that it’s lined with displeasure. He's practically radiating jealousy. For most people that might be enough for a love confession but Sam knows it won’t be that easy. They’ve already contended with the likes of April and Hannah and there’s still been crickets on the Destiel front. This is merely an added layer to the already present tension. For anything to actually happen, it's going to have to take something big, something life-altering. 

“Ya done?” Dean snaps at Cas impatiently when he’s rejoins them. 

“Um, yes.” Cas looks at Sam who nods in encouragement. “Dean,” Cas turns toward the other man and stares deep into Dean’s eyes. Sam holds his breath, waiting for Cas to recite some flowery sonnet or to profess his love. “Your, uh, eyes… your right eye looks better. It’s less puffy today than it looked yesterday.”

“Wow. Gee, thanks, Cas. Way to make a guy feel real special and not self-conscious at all,” Dean says dryly. “Let’s just go already.”

Sam doesn't know whether to face-palm or laugh out loud. He settles for keeping his mouth shut for now. Apparently he needs to get Cas alone and give him some pointers on flirting, romance, and the art of paying a _real_ compliment.

After a long day of interviews and dead ends, a new day dawns and Sam is the first of the trio to reach the coffeehouse again. 

“Hey, Paul Bunyan. Where’s your friends?” the same barista greets him jovially, her almond shaped eyes sparkling with mirth. He makes a point to read the name-tag pinned on her shirt just under a very intricate chest tattoo of a galaxy filled with stars. Her name is Nunut.

“Probably still in bed,” Sam says. “My brother isn’t exactly a morning person.”

“You were with two men yesterday, no? And the other guy? Are they in bed… together?" she asks slyly. Sam must look surprised because she says, "Forgive my forwardness. The dark-haired one told me that you put him up to asking for my number so I assume it was to make the other jealous.”

Sam chuckles and shakes his head. “Unfortunately, no. They’re still in that ‘Will They, Won’t They’ phase. I’m so used to it all that I forget how obvious they look to outsiders.”

“Well, I ship it,” Nunut quips seriously, pushing up her sleeves to reveal more tattooed stars. She must really have a thing for astrology, or astronomy, or both. “I think I can vouch for most girls when I say that a love like that is coveted. It’s once in a lifetime. If I can help in any way, just holler.”

Sam leaves her a nice tip and takes his double shot cappuccino back to the couch to begin perusing the notes that Dean had made from his interview with the Santiago family. 

“ _ The couple would meet at that Sky coffee joint where we got coffee this AM. _ ”

Huh. Sam wasn’t told that when he talked to Mario’s family but the family might not have known nor found it important. He decides to wait until Dean and Cas join him before they question Nunut. That way she can play up the flirting with Cas. Two birds, one stone. 

In the meantime, Sam decides to do a little background digging on Sky Coffee. The name Nunut keeps running on repeat in his mind, too. It isn’t a common name and it reminds him of something.  
  
He takes a big swig of coffee and starts diving into mythology. It doesn't take long to uncover some unsettling information. He is so engrossed in reading that he doesn’t notice how quiet the coffee shop has become until his fingers begin to feel leaden and heavy.   
  
He looks around to find that the entire place is empty. It’s morning on a workday. It should be jam-packed like it had been yesterday. 

Instantly on high alert, Sam scrambles for his phone and tries to dial Dean, but his fingers are starting to go numb and keep hitting the wrong buttons. Finally, he gets a call out and silently urges Dean to answer as he raises the phone to his ear.    
  
“You guys at that coffee place already?” Dean answers. “Ask Cas if he'll put an order in for me--”   
  
“Cas isn't here," Sam cuts in, alarmed. If Cas isn't here and he's not with Dean...   
  
There’s nothing but air on the line for a few seconds before Dean speaks again, his voice low. “What do you mean he’s not there?”   
  
“Dean, listen, I think I know who’s takin’ aw th coolples.” Sam's eyes widen as his mouth begins to go numb, too.   
  
“What? Sam, you broke up at the end there.”   
  
“I hed hat i hoe who aching aw th cup--cup--” His fingers can no longer feel the phone or hold on it. It slips from his hand and drops into the cushion of his lap.   
  
He's lost the ability to speak and to even swallow. A dribble of drool slips out of the corner of his mouth and down his chin, his body slowly slumping over on the couch.   
  
“How did you like your coffee?” Nunut asks sweetly somewhere behind him. She walks around the couch and smiles down at him. He tries to glare but he’s completely paralyzed. “I made it extra special for you today…”

This is it. This is how he, Sam Winchester, dies. By the hand of Nut, sometimes known as Nunut, Goddess of the Sky, the Mother of Gods.

+++  
  
Part 2 coming soon.


	11. Endverse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean is still confused about the orgy scene he saw in Endverse. We don't always get to see the kinds of conversations Dean and Cas may have when they're alone so I've given you one...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Promptober word: ENDVERSE  
> Rating: Teen+  
> Warnings: none
> 
> A few days late and a dollar short... 'cause that's how I roll.

There’s something that’s been bugging Dean for the past several years. Okay, there have been a _lot_ of things bugging Dean for years. But there’s one in particular, following him like a shadow that he can’t shake.

What the hell was actually going on in that post-apocalypse bubble that good ol’ Zach had sent him to way back when? And Dean doesn’t mean the get-the-Colt-and-assassinate-Lucifer-wearing-Sam-to-the-prom part. That part he _gets_.

It’s all the other _stuff_. The personal behind-the-scenes stuff.

Secrets were to be expected. They were, in that future Dean’s own words, “ _A camp full of twitchy trauma survivors_ ,” so of course they wouldn’t trust a Dean-clone who shows up right before they make to grab the Colt to gank a sonovabitch. Dean wouldn't trust Dean either, and he didn't--and isn't that trippy?

No, it was more than that. There was an unmistakable feeling that he was deliberately being kept in the dark about… something. Something more personal and profound. Something to do with the very real and palpable tension between his future self and that hapless and hopeless Cas.  
  
It’s thoughts like these that lead him down a rabbit trail to a point of distraction in which he opens his mouth and spews things like, “Hey, Cas, you ever think about havin’ an orgy?” without really thinking about how that’s gonna sound.

“I’m sorry?” Cas looks up from a spellbook he’s looking through and just stares and stares. “Is that… an invitation?”

“Pfft, no,” Dean barks out hastily. “An invitation? What the hell, man?”

“Well, _you_ asked,” Cas replies incredulously.  

“Yeah, just ‘cause—I was thinking.”  
  
“About me having an orgy?”  
  
“Okay, yeah, maybe I shoulda led with something else. You remember when that dick, Zach, sent me to twenty-fourteen to try and teach me some lesson?”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
“Well, I may have left out certain details--a lot of details, actually. I kinda gave you guys the highlight reel.”  
  
“And this somehow segues into me participating in orgies. Dean,” Cas says seriously, closing his book and pushing it aside, “why on earth would a version of me be having orgies, especially during an apocalypse?”  
  
“Yeah, exactly, man. But you--the other you--wasn’t actually doing it. Just setting one up. But it it’s been buggin’ me ever since because it just didn’t add up. I mean, I saw you in that brothel. You,” Dean chuckles, “weren’t exactly smooth.”  
  
But Cas isn’t listening, though. He’s got that look on his face, the serious one that means he’s in deep thought. “Before I pulled you out of hell,” he says slowly and Dean can’t stop the warmth that spreads throughout his body at the reminder, “I was a soldier. But more than that, I was a strategist, so things may not have seemed as they appeared.”  
  
Dean can see where this is going and he’s already nodding and getting comfortable in his chair. Maybe talking this out will help solve this mystery once-and-for-all. He needs to make sense of this and reconcile how Cas got to his low point.  
  
“Well, you were in this cabin--”  
  
“No, not me. Technically that Cas wasn’t me.”  
  
“Uh, what’re you talking about? He was gonna be you. The you were gonna become if I said no.”  
  
“But you _did_ say no and I didn’t become that. Dean, that was an alternate reality, one that was already underway. Angels aren’t omniscient. We cannot see the future. If we did, then we’d know what would happen and that interfering would be pointless.”  
  
Light-bulb. Dean is pretty much a living example of that. “Like that time you sent me to the past to show me I couldn’t change what happened with my parents. If anything, I’m the reason it all played out exactly how it was supposed to.”  
  
“Yes. Angels can see what has happened but we can’t see what is to come, unless it’s already passed in another reality. From there we can only extrapolate.”  
  
“So no matter what the angels did, they couldn’t change what was gonna happen. They could only try to twist my arm and hope I’d say yes and that it’d all work out in their favor.”  
  
“Yes, I believe this phenomena is what Doctor Who calls a bootstrap paradox,” Cas says with a wry smile.  
  
“It’s not Doctor _Who_. It’s The Doctor. Doctor Who is the question, not his name.”  
  
Cas’ brows shoot up. “And Sam is the nerd?”  
  
“Hey, a geek is different from a nerd, and I proudly let my geek flag fly, _thankyouverymuch_.” Dean nods toward Cas’ closed book. “Somehow you manage to be both.”  
  
“Best of both worlds,” Cas says gravelly, though he probably doesn’t mean for that to sound as inviting and dark and delicious as it sounds to Dean’s ears.  
  
But they’re getting off topic.  
  
“Okay, so I was sent to an alternate reality. But," open mouth, insert foot, "then how did that Dean and I have the same experience with Rhonda Hurley’s panties?”  
  
“You--” Cas coughs and shifts in his chair when he’s usually so still and composed. “What did you do with... panties?”  
  
The word sounds forbidden rolling off of Cas’ tongue and Dean’s mind blanks out a moment. Why the hell did he bring that up and just throw it out there?

He decides to blow over that one. “Uh, nothin’. So I came to this cabin--"  
  
“Whose cabin was it?”  
  
“Well, if it was my camp then it would've been my--the other me's--cabin. It was in an optimally protected position that was next to the weapons stash and water source. And the other Dean pulled right up to it when he got back from his errand to get the Colt."  
  
“So all signs point to it belonging to the leader. I would also assume that it was Dean’s cabin."  
  
"Except, when I went inside, the other Cas was there. And the room was decorated more like your style, with religious artifacts from the East. It was pretty damn cozy looking and had a nice big bed so..., anyway, that other Cas was just sitting in a circle on the floor with some ladies. He was talking to them about something zen. He only mentioned the orgy part after he saw me or I'd have never known that was what they were about to get up to."  
  
"He was giving them a pep talk before an orgy? Why? Is that what people typically do before having one?"  
  
"I mean, I dunno." Dean's been in a ménage à trois, sure, and there was the unmentionable time when he was a demon, but it's not like he's the lead expert on group sex. "I would think people would be more focused on the carnal, lusty stuff. Getting naked, kissing, touching. Looked more like a Bible study circle if ya ask me."   
  
Cas is contemplative and asks, "What did he do when you came in?"  
  
"The moment he saw me, he--" Dean pauses. Cas had _winked_ at him, and very happily sent the chicks packing. "He, uh, sent them all away. The orgy never even happened. Now, I don't know much but I do know that if I'm about to get laid and my brother or friend interrupts? I'm not going to happily or quickly dismiss the chicks."  
  
"Interesting," Cas says, narrowing his eyes a little over this information. "And you said that shortly afterward the other Dean returned from his errand?"  
  
"Yeah," Dean says but he doesn't mention the weird little interaction between that Dean and his men at that time. He can't remember exactly what was said but it was about Cas 'cause everyone turned to look at Cas. Dean had said something along the lines of them--future Dean and future Cas--having a weird, messed up situation together.   
  
"Okay," Cas sits up straighter, "so if Cas knew this was Dean's cabin, why would he plan an orgy for his Dean to walk in on? Or, if this was Cas' cabin, why was he not surprised for you to walk in unannounced? And why was he obliging in breaking it up so quickly?"   
  
Dean blinks and opens his mouth. He closes it. That is the part that he can’t figure out.  _It doesn't make sense_.   
  
“I think that, if it were me, lacking knowledgeable in the etiquette of group sex but also knowing you'd walk in, then I would be doing it on purpose to get a reaction from you." Cas gets up and reaches for his book, turning to leave the room. But he leaves Dean with one final thought over his shoulder. "I'd do it to make you jealous."  
  
Dean sits for a minute and considers the implications before slamming a hand on the table and getting up. “Hey, Cas,” he yells, pushing his chair out and striding for the hall Cas had disappeared down. “You wanna hear all about the panties?”  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is meta and I'm not even sorry because I absolutely love Endverse meta. Ironically enough, I have a hard time reading fics set in the Endverse timeline. Though, I've been recc'ed Down to Agincourt and that's definitely in my bookmarks to read when I have time.
> 
> Here's the meta that changed my life about the episode:  
> http://lurea.tumblr.com/post/32740499203/504-futuredean-and-cas-are-lovers-and-the-whole
> 
> And here's some of my own additional thoughts/parallels:  
> https://thetwistedwillow.tumblr.com/post/162097383884/cas-is-the-central-focus-of-the-end


	12. Cowboy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cesar and Jesse invite the Winchesters, Cas, and Jack for a visit to their ranch.
> 
> This is set in some weird bubble of the time in which Cas and Jack are both with the Winchesters, there's no AU drama with Michael, etc. So pre-s13 finale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Promptober Word: COWBOY  
> Rating: Teen+  
> Warning: None

Maybe he should get horses. Dean can just picture them now. A full set of four.

The first would be a sweetheart mare with a honey-colored coat and a snip of white on her satiny nose. She’d probably have a ridiculously cutesy, meaningful name like Mornin’ Glory but just go by Glory.

The patriarch would be tall and majestic, a rich chestnut with a long, raven-black mane and a classic name like Sundance.

And of course there has to be a shiny pewter gelding—because Dean can’t have his horse macking on Glory and having little horse babies. The silver would be the fastest and coolest of the herd. And, obviously, he’d be named Zappa.

And the youngest a blond, or maybe a rare pure white, named something kickass like Archipelago, just so Dean can shorten it to Archie.

Here at the Cuevas Ranch, Jesse and Cesar have a couple dozen horses, mostly mares. The one that Cas is currently hand-feeding some oats to has a reddish coat and a small white mark on her forehead called a star. She has streaks of gray in her mane that creep onto her back indicating her status as a senior citizen on the ranch.

She’s an old soul like Cas--attentive, gentle and kind. Dean watches Cas stroke her nose after she’s done with her treat. He's completely focused on her, talking soothingly. Whatever words end up rising in high enough decibels to reach Dean, who is leaning against the wall just inside the barn’s doorway, sound like Enochian.

There are footsteps approaching outside of the barn so Dean slips out of the door before Cas can catch him watching. It’s Jesse walking by on his way to his one-story home. Dean ends up falling into step next to him so they can walk together.  
  
“How’s he doin’?” Jesse asks.  
  
Embarrassed at being caught, Dean plays dumb. “How’s who doing?”  
  
Jesse gives him a look that says he can smell bullshit and he’s not buying any.  
  
“Looks like he’s made friendly with a redhead in there.”  
  
“That’s Razz. I bet she appreciates the company. It's harder for her to get out with the rest of the herd.”  
  
“Razz?”   
  
“Short for Raspberry,” Jesse slides open a patio door that leads to the kitchen. “Just as sweet as the berries, too.” 

“What’s sweet?” Cesar asks, looking over from the stove. Jack is standing next to him and looks over, too, giving Dean a big smile.

“Oh, just talking about Dean’s angel spending time with Razz,” Jesse replies nonchalantly.

Sam is sitting at the dining table and snorts into the coffee cup he’s currently drinking. Dean glares and pulls out the seat across the table.

“I’m gonna go change,” Jesse adds, walking up to Cesar to rub his back tenderly. They share a kiss and Dean looks away.  
  
Not because they’re gross or anything. Kissing is awesome. Kissing is fucking fantastic. He looks away because he’s scared that if he sees them, he’ll feel _it_.

 _It_ being that sensation that causes him longing and envy and all of these things that take him right up to the edge of losing his last shred of self-control that holds him back from crossing the friendship line--with a certain angel--and into uncharted territory.

“Well, we’re happy to have Cas stay with us,” Cesar says and Dean’s heart skips at the mention of the name after his last thought. “Jack is welcome to stay, too, if he wants,” Cesar smiles and lays a hand on Jack’s shoulder, squeezing it affectionately.

“Yeah, uh, we’ll talk it over,” Sam says, shooting Dean a look that shares his discomfort with the idea of leaving _both_ Cas and Jack.

They're here because they had happened to be in northwest Texas on a case when Cesar had called to check-in since it'd been ages. When Cesar had heard how close they were to New Mexico, the Cuevases invited them to visit the ranch and stay a night or two for some R-&-R.

They had only been here for an hour when Dean noticed Cas’ draw to the horses and how he had become considerably more relaxed after his initial, stiff introduction to the Cuevas men. It had given Dean an idea.

Leaving Cas to lean on a wooden railing to watch a few of the horses play, Dean pulled Cesar and Jesse aside. He asked if Cas could stay awhile, explained in vague detail why (leaving out anything and everything about Lucifer), and they agreed to a week.

In Dean's opinion, Cas needs a recharge and time to slow down. He’d never gotten a chance to recover from Lucifer’s possession and he’s seemed weaker, his grace taking longer and longer to regrow or whatever it is grace does.

So this is really about Cas’ rest. Not that Jack would be in the way or all that stress-inducing, but Dean doesn’t want to leave both an angel and a half-angel in someone else’s care.

Actually, the thought of leaving just Cas here is similarly disconcerting but the guy has been around since the dawn of time or something. He gets his way around for the most part. But Jack is basically still a fledgling and Dean will admit that he feels a specific sort of responsibility for his well-being.

Jack may be smiling now but his brow had instantly knitted together when he was invited to stay. The boy probably wants to get back to the Internet and to hunting, which is still new and exciting to him, and not muck horse stalls for a week.

“So, we’re making fajitas tonight,” Cesar says conversationally, moving around his kitchen with ease.  
  
“I'm going to help make tortillas from scratch,” Jack adds.

“That sounds friggin' awesome," Dean exclaims. "Do you need any help?"  
  
"We got it, right, Jack?"  
  
Jack takes a cutting board from Cesar. "Right."

The backdoor slides open and Cas steps inside. He’s wearing his usual get-up which looks out-of-place on the homestead.

The chair next to Dean is pulled back and Cas sits down, placing his hands on his lap like he usually does, and relaxes. Or relaxes as much as Cas can.

“Your son is making fajitas,” Dean informs him, really stoked about the fresh tortillas.

“Oh,” Cas says in surprise. “That’s really helpful of you, Jack.”

“You’re gonna have to try one,” Dean insists, over-enunciating his words, knowing Cas might refuse because, logically, he doesn’t need to eat.

But Dean can remember being devastated when John would be too distracted to notice anything Dean made or did well. He’ll be damned if Jack has to feel that way. And Cas doesn’t realize that he holds that kind of power because Cas doesn’t _get it_ so Dean gives him _The Look_.

“Right, of course. I look forward to trying them, Jack,” Cas says, thankfully getting it after all. Maybe. Dean beams at him anyway and then looks over to catch Jack’s pleased smile. Cesar, though, is looking between Dean and Cas peculiarly.

“I didn’t realize Jack was your son but I can’t say that the resemblance,” his eyes flick between Dean and Cas again, “isn’t there. I’m not up-to-snuff with angel lore, but how does _that_ work?”

Cas exchanges a look with Dean and shifts around in his seat. They hadn’t told Cesar and Jesse the specifics, only that Cas and Jack were angels in case there were any wardings that the hunters needed to know about.

Sam is the one who speaks up, having watched everyone in silent amusement up to this point. “Jack is part human.”

“Sam,” Dean hisses, snaking his head minutely. He receives a swift kick to his shin from his little brother and Sam‘a smile widens.

“I’ll spare you the details but, yeah, Jack is part angel, part human.”

Cesar is taken aback. “But last we saw you... Jack is nearly an adult?”

“Oh, well, ya know. That’s the angel part. He was kinda born this size. He’s only a few months old,” Dean says and Cesar raises his brows in disbelief. “He learns real fast.”

“And he likes learning about this kind of stuff so thanks for including him,” Sam gestures toward the bell peppers that Jack is concentrating hard on slicing just right.

“Yeah, Sam teaches me computers and how to research for cases, Cas helps with the angel stuff and Dean pretty much teaches me everything about being a human.”

Dean’s chest swells with pride. To think how angry and distrusting he had been when Jack was born and to have come to this. Dean can’t imagine Jack being anything but family now.

“It’s great that you have supportive dads and family,” Cesar says kindly but his blase comment may as well have just punched Dean in the sternum.

It’s no secret that if Dean had ever had kids, he’d have been proud if they were anything like the Naphil. But Jack's not actually Dean’s son. Has Cesar gotten the impression that Dean is the human in the human equation of Jack’s genetic makeup?  
  
Judging by Sam's shit-eating grin that was most likely his goal. Both Cas and Jack look over at Dean with matching confused expressions, which Dean would laugh at any other time, but it’s taking everything in him to keep his mouth shut right now and not correct Cesar. He’s not gonna reject and embarrass the kid in front of everyone. Again, all that shit with his dad. He’ll just have to pull Cesar aside later to explain and maybe talk to Jack and… shit. Now it’s a mess.

“Jesse and I never had kids,” Cesar continues talking, pulling out a small tray of raw steaks from the fridge.

“You didn’t want to?” Jack asks.

“Well, kids would’ve been nice if we were the suburban, church-going type but we were hunters and didn’t want a kid growing up in this.”

“I don’t mind it,” Jack says nonchalantly, shrugging his slim shoulders and Cesar laughs.

“You were kinda born into it,” Sam says. “It’s practically in your genes. Adopting a kid and knowingly bringing them into this?” Sam shakes his head. “That’s kinda irresponsible.”

“And you’re sad about not having kids?” Jack asks Cesar. The young boy is frowning and looking at Cesar in a way that reminds Dean of how Cas looks when he can sense emotions he can't quite understand.

“I don’t regret falling in love and marrying my best friend,” Cesar says carefully and Dean keeps his gaze fixed on a knot of wood grain in the table top so he doesn’t risk looking at Cas, “even if it has meant sacrifices and some hardships. We have each other and that’s been enough.”  
  
His head snaps up at the sudden scraping of chair legs, everyone else also looking over at Cas.  
  
“I’m going outside,” Cas announces awkwardly and then turns to leave.  
  
Dean watches him through the large glass door with a perplexed expression until the tan coat, flapping in the breeze, becomes a speck in the distance, eventually swallowed up in camouflage with the landscape.  
  
“Anyway,” Sam says, snapping Dean out of it, going on to talk about the case they just got off from.  
  
He forces himself to sit there even though he itches to go after Cas and see what spooked him so bad to just up and leave.  
  
Dean starts listening again when he hears Sam ask, "So, how do you feel about hanging around here for a week, Jack? We’ll leave it up to you.”  
  
“I think,” Jack pauses. He's moved onto tortilla dough, the bell peppers sauteing in a pan with some onion. “Why doesn’t Dean stay and I go back to the bunker with Sam?”  
  
“I’m sorry, what?” Dean sputters. That just came outta nowhere.  
  
"If you don't want Cas to stay here alone, I think it makes more sense you stay, Dean," Jack says very simply, and it's eerily close to his concerns from earlier.   
  
Sam raises his brow in question but Dean shakes his head minutely. "I don't mind," Sam shrugs. "Jack and I have some things we can work on. We can have some good ol' uncle and nephew bonding time."  
  
Jesse returns then, showered and changed into fresh clothes that aren't covered in sweat and dirt. The kitchen becomes distracted from the topic of Dean staying here with Cas--and why would he, pssh?  
  
When Jesse takes the steaks outside to grill, Dean follows with beers.  
  
While they wait for the grill to heat up, they pop the tops off and toss the metal discs into an empty pot on the patio. The bottles almost instantly sweat in the heat, ice cold in Dean's grip. He takes a sip and searches the horizon but can't see Cas anywhere.  
  
"You look like you fit in here," Jesse says, watching Dean's face carefully.   
  
"Hmm, would be nice. But ain't practical."  
  
"That's what I used to think. There was always another thing to fight, huh?"  
  
"Yeah," Dean says sadly. There always was.   
  
"I overheard you being invited to stay back. We don't got friends who really get what it's like, ya know? Hunting, having your loved ones used against you. It wears you down. You think a Rugaru is gonna be the end of ya, but it's the damn stress that'll kill you in the end." Jesse squints against the setting sun. "You gotta take a breather when you can."  
  
"Uh, yeah, maybe. Was just worried about Cas and wasn't thinkin' about myself."  
  
"Maybe you should. You can't take care of him if you can't take care of yourself first. You two need each other. And from what I can see, Jack is gonna need you both, too."  
  
"It's not--" Dean chuckles apprehensively,"it's not like  _that_. He's like a brother."  
  
Jesse smiles wryly. "I recall a certain hunter mistaking my husband and me for brothers. But all I see, pardon my bluntness, is an old married couple. Figure I got some experience with recognizing it."  
  
The steaks sizzle when Jesse tosses them on, filling up the awkward silence because Dean has no idea how to respond to that. Like any other time someone makes some insinuation or assumption, he just presses his lips together and doesn't confirm it. He doesn't deny it either.   
  
There's movement near the barn, Cas walking around it from wherever he'd gone.  
  
"Go," Jesse says, tossing another steak on, his focus on the meat.  
  
Dean fiddles with the beer bottle as he walks briskly through the yard and out to the path that leads up to the barn. He meets Cas halfway.   
  
"You, uh, doin' okay? Why'd you run off?"  
  
"I needed fresh air. I like it here."  
  
"Yeah, that's why it'll do some good to stick around for a bit," Dean says, but it must be the wrong thing because Cas instantly frowns and looks away. "What?"  
  
"You seem to have a habit of leaving me places when I inconvenience you. I understand why you left me at the psychiatric hospital and back in Idaho when I was human, but I'm having a hard time understanding what I've done to--"  
  
"Shit, Cas, you got it all wrong. I'm not--we're not leaving you here 'cause you're in the way. In fact, they asked Jack to stay with you, but he wants to go back to the bunker--"  
  
Cas throws up his hands. "Oh, so now Jack doesn't want anything to do with me?"  
  
"If you'd let me finish? For the record, Jack is a kid and kids do what kids do so get used to them making choices that have nothing to do with you. But, uh, the point I was trying to get to is that they said I should stay instead."  
  
A breeze blows Cas' hair over his forehead and into his eyes but he doesn't move a muscle as he stares Dean down. "You wouldn't want that."  
  
"Would you?" Dean counters.  
  
"Of course," Cas says, not mincing his words. Not beating around the bush. Simple. To the point.   
  
"Well, fine then. I'm staying. You, me, and a week with a bunch of gorgeous girls." Speaking of which, a couple of them whinny in the near distance.  
  
There's a tick in Cas' lip, like he's not sure if he should be allowed to smile, and the anxiety that shrouded him earlier lifts away from his taut shoulders, making him appear less statuesque and a bit more human.   
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this did not come out in any way, shape, or form what I was originally envisioning. I'm not sure if I like it. I really wanted more interaction between the couples with the 'old married couple' type of banter. And with Jack noticing the similarities between Cesar/Jesse and Dean/Cas, coming to the conclusion that Dean and Cas are together without any doubt. And I wanted some other things to happen but, alas, I went over the 2K word limit as-is and am behind on drabbles so this'll have to be it for now.


	13. Reverse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean's escape pod has crash landed on a planet with humanoid people who designate themselves as Alphas and Omegas. Dean has no idea what all of that means but he's instantly dubbed the No-Breed and is taken in by one of the rare male Omegas... just until Dean can get back to his own people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Promptober word: REVERSE  
> (as in a reverse of the characters' personalities/quirks, or themes)  
> Rating: Explicit  
> Warnings: Dubcon (lack of knowledge), ABO

This is a placeholder for the REVERSE fic. It's longer than a drabble. It's an ABO.   
  
I'll publish it and post the link to it here soon.


	14. Disney

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We always get stories of Sam and/or Charlie meddling with the DeanCas... but what about Jo? This is a story in which Cinderella (Jo) helps Prince Charming (Cas) find his happily-ever-after (Dean).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompter word: DISNEY  
> Rating: Teen+  
> Warnings: None
> 
> I'm really sad I didn't get Sam into this one. I do have an entire backstory involving him and how he'd come into play but for this drabble I am mainly focused on Dean and Cas. It's a quick attraction, much quicker than I usually write. Enjoy.

Everyone has a role to play and it’s only when they all do their part and work together that the magic truly happens. 

Or some inspirational poetic shit like that. 

Dean snorts in amusement at the sight of Jo pulling long, silky, white gloves over her manicured hands.  _ Manicured. _ Even though her gloves cover everything clear up to her elbows she has to keep her nails nice in the off-chance she loses a glove while in character. 

This is the same girl who can shoot a tin can off a fence post with her eyes closed and live in the woods for a week with nothing but a switchblade.

“Shut. It. Winchester,” she snarls, which causes Dean to laugh heartily. 

“I can’t help it. You look—“ His gaze travels down her body. 

Honestly, she looks amazing. Her big, blue ball gown is cinched tight around her trim waist, her golden hair spun upward into a bun, her slender neck and smooth chest covered in something that’s given her skin some shimmer. She’s a _princess_. 

“That bad, huh?” she asks dryly when Dean doesn’t finish his sentence. “Help me with my choker and then be gone peasant.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Dean says, stepping up behind her so that he can clasp the strip of black velvet around her throat. 

“There,” she turns back around. “I think I’m ready.” It’s only now that Dean can hear the nerves. It wasn’t long ago she was a waitress and now… Cinderella is kinda a big deal around here. 

“You’re gonna kill it. You just have to remember to smile, do your fancy waving that you’ve practiced a  _ million _ times. And you’re talking to  _ kids. _ ” Which is easy as pie.

“Exactly. My beer swindling, profanity-spewing ass is going to be interacting with impressionable young children.”

“Pfft. One look at the hellions and you’ll melt into a puddle of instinctive maternal goo. Kids are easy. Plus, you won’t be alone.”

“Yeah. It just sucks I haven’t met Prince Charming yet. I hope he’s actually charming out-of-character and not an asshole. It’ll make this job a helluva lot easier.”

“I’d like to think I’m very charming,” a voice joins in. 

Dean whips around and Jo peers over his shoulder to see the eavesdropper. Standing in the doorway of the employee lounge is a tall man with dark hair, vibrant jewel-tone blue eyes, and the classic red-and-cream costume of Cinderella’s Prince Charming. Dean can hear Jo exhale dreamily behind his ear. Gross. 

“I’m sure you are,” Jo muses, stepping around Dean. She holds out her hand princess style and the prince takes it just like he’s supposed to, eyes crinkling when he smiles at her. 

They look their parts so well they may have stepped right outta the circa 1950 animated classic. And Dean—smoothing his burgundy shirt—kinda feels like one of Cinderella’s pet rodents in comparison. 

Dean’s just a ride operator. He’s dressed for his job as a bellhop for the Tower of Terror. 

“Well, you kids have fun,” Dean says, picking up his bellhop cap from a table and fitting it onto his head. “If you need me, I’ll be busy making people scream and shit themselves.”

“Isn’t the Tower in another park?” Prince Charming asks, looking over at Dean in confusion. He’s still gently holding Jo’s fingers.  
  
"I am actually impressed you know the ride and where I work just 'cause of what I'm wearing," Dean says, heat radiating through him when Cas very obviously looks him over from head-to-toe.  
  
"I've never ridden it. You must ride it a lot?"  
  
Both Jo and Dean burst out laughing. "Absolutely not," Dean replies. "I send my buddies on it to test it out. They don't pay me enough for me to get on that thing."  


“So, to answer your question, this is my best friend, Dean. It’s my first day as, well, this,” Jo grasps a fistful of her skirt and lifts it slightly in some weird curtsy, “so he was just over here helping to distract me before he has to clock in.”

“Nice to meet you, Dean,” the prince says. Jo’s hand is lowered and the prince extends his hand out to Dean for a handshake. Dean takes it, eyes locked on the other man, mesmerized. Holy shit, he really is charming. Dean can see why he got the role. “I’m Castiel.”

“And you,” Jo says, poking Dean’s shoulder, “are going to be late.”

“Right.” Dean clears his throat and takes a step back from whatever sorcery this Castiel wields that makes him _feel things_. 

“Dean?” Castiel says, drawing Dean's attention back before he can make a run for it. Blue eyes are trained on Dean’s throat. 

Dean lifts a self-conscious hand and finds that the button there is undone. Oh. Usually he keeps it undone until he gets to his park and applies his makeup. He normally would get dressed over there, too, but he didn’t have time to do it all and still see Jo before her debut. 

But Castiel doesn’t know that. He replaces the distance that Dean had put between them and feeds the round brass button through the hole, his knuckles ghosting Dean’s throat. Even worse is when his Adam's apple grazes Cas’ fingers when he swallows, Castiel’s eyes snapping up to his and searching for… something. 

And then he’s gone, stepping back to stand next to Jo. “Better,” Castiel says approvingly. 

“Yeah, okay,” Dean says, hoping his cheeks aren’t flushed. “See you later, Jo. And, uh, nice to meet you, Cas.” Dean grows stern, only half-joking, when he adds, “Take care of her or you’ll hear from me.”

 

+++

 

Turns out Cas doesn't need to hear from Dean. All Jo talks about after they first met is Cas-this and Cas-that. In her high feminine voice, Dean can hear her on repeat, “ _ He’s amazing, he’s  _ **_so_ ** _ patient with the children, he wants to be a doctor, he helps little defenseless animals and old ladies," _  like he's a friggin' real life Snow White—which is pretty accurate considering he probably is the fairest in all of the parks.

Okay, wow. That was cheesy, even for anyone who isn’t Dean. And he hasn’t even seen him again after their initial meeting since Dean usually heads straight for Hollywood Studios and Jo goes to the Magic Kingdom. 

“We should invite him to the Halloween party,” Jo says from Dean’s couch while he’s busy in the kitchen spreading mayo in white bread for their lunch. They’re on the same schedule so it’s both of their day off. 

Dean groans. “I still don’t get why we’re having one. We dress up for a living. I literally wear costume makeup five days a week.”

“So go buff. I’m sure the chicks won’t mind.”

“Maybe I will,” Dean mumbles, plopping a handful of potato chips on each plate. “Anyway, you think Mr. I Wanna Be a Doctor wants to hang out with the likes of us?”

“Jesus, Dean. This isn’t high school. And I’ve already told you, he’s cool.”

Dean brings the lunch plates over and scrutinizes Jo’s face. “I see what this is. You wanna see him outside of work and this is the perfect excuse.”

Jo takes such an enormous bite of her sandwich that Cinderella would be appalled… if she were real. 

“Guilty,” she says around her half masticated ham and cheese. 

“Whatever. Let’s just not turn this into an open party and invite every goddamn coworker. I want a laid-back evening, not some wild shit that gets outta control. I don't wanna be cleaning spitwads off the ceiling or cleaning Jello shots outta the carpet.”

“Smaller, intimate Halloween party among friends. Got it.” Jo pops a chip in her mouth and chews with her mouth open. 

“And, unlike you, I actually wanna pass out candy to trick-or-treaters. Don’t think I can do that if someone is behind me swinging from a ceiling fan in an adult diaper ‘cause they’re high outta their minds.”

“You don’t have to deal with kids like I do so candy duty is  _ all _ you, buddy ol’ pal.”

Dean flicks her ear when she obnoxiously crunches on another chip. 

 

+++

 

“What are you supposed to be?” Jo asks, a hand propped on her hip. She’s dressed like a friggin’ Vegas showgirl or something, her body wrapped in a form-fitting gold dress. 

“A dead hick,” he deadpans, closing the door after she struts in on ridiculously high red pumps. 

“What is dead about you? You’re just wearing jeans and a flannel.”

“And? This is Florida. No one dresses like this here,” he argues, even though that makes no sense because they definitely do. Maybe he shouldn’t have had two drinks already, so early on in the night. 

“Actually, they do," Jo confirms. She stomps a high heel. “You’re supposed to have a costume.”

“So I’ll add some fake blood to the corner of my mouth, Jesus Christ. Go get some witch’s brew and take the broomstick outta your—“

The doorbell rings and Jo flips him off. She heads toward the kitchen where the libations and their friends are gathered while he grabs the candy bowl in case it’s kids. 

“Whoa,” Dean exclaims when he swings the door open to some half-pints in costumes. He squats down to their level so they can pick a piece of candy. “I didn’t know Elsa and Spiderman were gonna show up tonight.”

The two kids giggle and run off toward the next house, running right past a figure that is walking up Dean’s walkway with a large case of beer. 

“Hello, Dean.”

“Hey, Cas,” Dean greets brightly, excited to see him again. But he’s also a little nervous. For all of Jo’s endless talking Dean feels like he’s gotten to know the guy—and dare he admit it he's come to really like him—and that gives him the impression that he’s outta Cas’ league here. “Come on in.” 

He holds the screen door open so that Cas can squeeze past. The man brings in the scent of the Floridian night and something spiced and minty, like aftershave. 

“Here, I can take those. These’ll be _much_ appreciated.” The case of beer passes hands. 

“You’re good with kids. Tell me why you’re not a prince?” Cas asks suspiciously.

“Ha, well, I leave the royal duties to the more handsome devils and just stick to what I know; mechanics.” Dean realizes he basically just insinuated that Cas handsome—which Cas caught because now he’s smirking—and rushes on. “‘Cause I may be dressed like an undead bellhop but I actually help with some of the mechanical stuff with the ride if needed. So, uh, Constantine?”

Cas, looking ruggedly handsome and windblown, glances down at his tan coat and skewed tie. “You got me. Not very clever but I had all the pieces already. Though, now that I think about it, he and I do share a few similarities. Have you read the comics?”

“I can’t say that I have,” Dean says, gesturing for Cas to follow him to the kitchen. 

“Then you don’t know,” Cas stops him in the living room, does that eye searching thing again that makes Dean’s heart unsteady, “that Constantine is bisexual?”

Dean feels like he’s being given a subliminal message here. A hint, a clue. He scratches the back of his hair a little shyly. 

“I think I know now..?” Dean says, his voice a husky whisper. 

He’s rewarded with a soft smile and maybe even a twinkle of promise in Cas’ eye before they round the corner to the very full kitchen and are both given Solo cups filled with spiked punch. 

Introductions would be made except Cas already seems to know most everyone—like Garth, Benny, Adam, Ketch, Donna, Alex, and Jo. They're all dressed up to some degree, from Garth's werewolf to Donna's Daria. 

There’s a few stragglers that will wander in at some point but when it comes to food, they wait for no man. Everyone digs into the ladyfingers and mummy mozzarella sticks and the other appetizers that people have brought. 

Dean also has a crock of chili for the main dish, which everyone teases him about because it can hardly be considered a cold tonight. 

“Country boy made a country dish. You’re welcome,” Dean says, saluting them all with his cup. “Now, get your grub and go loiter in the living room.”

A little while later there’s a card game set up at the coffee table with the promise of a drinking game later and Dean moves between the living room and front door until every last piece of candy is either demolished and given away. 

Dean and Cas seem to keep gravitating toward one another, ending up lingering near the foyer when the last kid has come to the door. 

“You know,” Cas says slowly, his fourth or fifth drink in hand, “I didn’t ask you about your costume.”

“Nothing to say about it ‘cause I decided to just be me."  
  
"Very interesting," Cas says, squinting at maybe a button or a chili stain on Dean's shirt.

“So, uh, he also smokes, doesn’t he? Constantine?”

“Well, I’m afraid I don’t share  _ that _  trait in common with him,” Cas says, maintaining eye contact over his red cup as he takes a long drink. 

Feeling bold, Dean asks, “Then what else do you share in common with him?”

“Other than what I already mentioned?” Cas beckons Dean to come close, like he’s about to tell a secret. Dean leans in, Cas’ breath hot against his neck when he whispers, “I can’t tie a fucking tie.”

Cas leans back to catch Dean’s eye and they both laugh. Dean claps a hand around Cas’ bicep and squeezes, maybe letting it linger a little longer than necessary but hey, it's a nice bicep. 

“Did you just cuss with those princely lips?” Dean pretends to be aghast. 

“I can do a lot of things with these lips that I wouldn't do as a polite and respectable prince.” Cas makes a face. "Was that even proper English?"

Dean chuckles and shakes his head. He glances over and happens to catch Jo watching them from across the room. She raises a brow and it quickly sobers Dean.  

“I think Jo needs me. Be right back,” Dean says.  He approaches her and takes her aside, just a little bit away from the card game that's getting out-of-hand (pun intended). “Sorry,” Dean says instantly. “I know I can be a flirt and that you like him. I can back off.”

Jo starts giggling and it turns into really annoying laughter because Dean doesn't know what she's laughing at. She's also probably drunk. “Did you really think I was extolling your virtues to him, and his to you, because **_I_** liked him? Puh-lease. I’m here for Gaston.”

“ _ Benny _ ?”

“Mmm,” Jo makes moon eyes at the aforementioned man, who is currently dressed like Dracula. “I bet he could bench press me,” she adds and Dean's pretty sure he wasn't meant to hear that.

“Ew, Jo,” Dean complains. 

She sloppily pats his arm. “Soon as I saw the way Cas looked at you…” Jo makes a small explosion sound, “I saw the fireworks and knew. And you," she laughs, “you were smitten. You’re really not as good at hiding your feelings as you think you are.”

“Uh, thanks?”

“You’re welcome,” she beams. “Now, why are you talkin’ to me? You see me all the time.” She grabs Dean and turns him around, shoving him a little. Her voice rises. “Go kiss Prince Charming.”

A couple of hoots go up around them and Dean shakes his head as he returns to Cas’ side, ducking his head in embarrassment because it's clear Cas heard her by the way he's grinning. Dean's house isn't _that_ big. 

Behind them someone starts singing, “ _There you see him, sitting there across the way…_ ”

“Are you fucking serious?” Dean asks. He groans and covers his face, his complaint falling on deaf ears. 

Everyone but Dean and Cas join in, people hanging over the back of the couch and their chairs, until they’re practically yelling, “ _Go on and kiss the prince!_ ”

“You know, Dean,” Cas says, “we really shouldn’t disappoint the children."  
  
"I think you're right," Dean murmurs, taking that stupid tie and drawing Cas close.  
  
He nearly goes deaf from everyone's catcalling and hollers when they kiss, but he can't even be mad because he's sublimely happy and Cas is smiling against his lips. All-in-all it's shaping up to be a great beginning to their ever-after.  
  
And who knew? Even a lowly undead bellhop can find his prince charming, and all thanks to one kickass princess.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not even sorry that this is probably the fluffiest, cheesiest thing I've ever written. 
> 
> Dean made chili for his party because that's what I make in my crock-pot on Halloween so we can eat whenever at some point between dressing up and trick-or-treating. 
> 
> Getting so close to Halloween. Anyone dressing up?
> 
> ~TheTwistedWillow~


	15. Cop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel and Dean are supposed to be police partners on a special task force but they both have trust issues. How can they possibly work together if they constantly keep secrets? This is the story of how they meet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Promptober Word: COP/MAFIA  
> Rating: Mature  
> Warnings: Sensitive Topic (selling sex; prostitution; human trafficking), Strong Language.

Tomorrow is Castiel’s first day working with the Omega Trafficking Task Force (OTTF). A new city, a new job, a new apartment—a whole new beginning. Transferring to a new place from across the country hasn't left much time for cooking so Cas’ stomach has led him to a hole-in-a-wall bar just a few blocks away from his apartment complex. 

He could’ve driven further but he’d been so busy unpacking that he’d forgotten to eat lunch and dinner, it had gotten late, and he was too ravenous to try and risk looking for any further in the hopes that anything else would be open.   
  
Either the food was much better than he thought it’d be or he’s too hungry to have higher standards. He polishes off his burger and leans back in his chair with the one beer he’s allowing himself. Out of an instinctual habit that began long before he ever became an officer, Cas watches everyone in the bar with a keen eye.

It’s a sad and somber atmosphere compared to the thumping nightclubs and the more active hipster bars—or whatever kids call them these days. Country music is playing quietly in the background and, a little further down the bar, the news is playing on a muted television.    
  
There’re many other patrons scattered around the room, no more than three at a table. The customers that raise his hackles the most are the pair of Alphas playing pool under a track of yellow lights. They’re crass and obnoxious but Cas is far enough away that they’re nothing more than a nuisance. 

There is one man in particular that has gained Cas’ curiosity. He’s gangly, with a small frame and large ears, and he's been sitting alone in a corner booth for as long as Cas has been here. He keeps looking at the time and appears impatient.  
  
The bartender is a rat of a man with a very narrow face, a severe overbite, and a hooked nose. Despite outward appearances, he’s been congenial and his scent is not off-putting, which is something specific that Cas considers when assessing his surroundings. 

Behind the bar, saloon doors slap open and a young-ish man comes stalking out of the kitchen, drawing the eyes of several people. 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m here now ain’t I?” he bites out to seemingly no one, whipping a washcloth out of a small black apron string tied around his waist. He begins wiping down an empty table.

The doors slap open again, swinging furiously back-and-forth, and a larger man follows the young busboy. Cas sits up straighter, his pulse quickening. He can practically feel his adrenaline rise as he wonders if he’ll need to intervene should the man antagonize his employee.

“I don’t pay you to be a disrespectful smartass. I pay you to be on time and do yer job,” the red-faced man snarls, hovering behind the busboy.    
  
“Okay, Gerald, got it,” the busboy snaps, moving to the next table to collect several neglected beer bottles. The glasses clink together in a whimsical way, like wind chimes affected by a breeze.    
  
Gerald, presumably the manager, grumbles under his breath and returns to the counter, setting himself on a barstool so he has an advantageous spot to watch his employee. He starts nibbling on the shelled peanuts leftover in a small bowl from the last customer. 

Letting out his held breath, Cas decides to call it a night since it appears that nothing is going to escalate. He pulls out his wallet and flips through it, counting out some cash to leave as a tip.

“Hey, handsome,” Busboy says as he passes Cas’ table and Cas inhales automatically, catching the boy’s scent.    
  
It is light, like the busboy’s blockers are fading, but it is the fact that he’s an Omega that Cas is caught off-guard. So much so that he doesn’t even think to respond before the Omega disappears into the kitchen to dispose of the bottles.   
  
His eyes follow the young man when he returns and continues making rounds about the bar, wiping a table here, gathering up dirty plates and empty cups there. 

Cas wants nothing more than to wrap the Omega up and get him far away from these people who are trying to grope him and making suggestive comments.    
  
Even though the Omega is taking it all in stride, laughing and flirting back, Cas can recognize the micro-movements of recoil that tell him that the boy is anything but comfortable by the crass attention. 

Belatedly, Cas realizes that he’s watching the Omega with an intensity that he shouldn’t be openly expressing because the next thing he knows, Gerald is hobbling toward him with a glint of something wicked in his eye.   
  
“How was your food?” Gerald motions toward Cas’ empty plate on the table.    
  
“It was fine, thank you,” Cas says, reanimating and leaning forward to slip his wallet in his back pocket.   


“A nice Alpha like you surely doesn’t deserve to have a lonely bed on a night like tonight. Tell me, are you lookin’ for some fun?”

“I’m sorry?” Cas asks, narrowing his eyes up at the manager. 

Gerald misunderstands and clarifies, “Not with me. Him,” and waves toward the Omega who is bent over a table and wiggling his hips to an unheard tune that he must hear only in his own head. 

“I—“ Cas is thunderstruck at first but his shock quickly becomes anger.

“Saw ya ogling him and just thought…” The manager holds up his hands in a placating manner and backs up a step. “But, never mind.”

“No, I’m interested,” Cas blurts out, his mind racing with a plan while also arguing with himself that this is a bad idea.

The manager beams and then yells across the bar for the busboy. “Hey, Mikey, get over here.”

Cas’ fists clench in his lap when he sees the Omega flinch but when the boy turns around from the table that he’s currently cleaning off there’s a big smile plastered on his face. 

Mikey approaches them, his hands full of more bottles and tall glasses. “Yeah?” he asks.

“Got a side job for ya.” The manager gives Mikey a stern look. “You know the drill.”    
  
“Side job doing what?” Mikey asks with a tone that sounds like feigned innocence.   
  
Gerald gets flustered and waves Mikey over. “What’d I tell ya about gettin’ smart? C’mere.”    
  
The two step aside and talk in hushed whispers and when Gerald turns back to Cas his lips are curled lewdly. “Enjoy,” he says before walking off and leaving Cas alone with the Omega.   
  
“Hey. Got a name?” Mikey asks, unloading his arms by setting the dirty dishes on Cas’ table.

“James,” Cas says without hesitation.

White teeth flash at Cas when the Omega smiles. “Nice to meet ya. I’m Michael, but everyone calls me Mikey.”

Mikey reaches across the table, extending a hand for a handshake, but he accidentally bumps a half-full glass of foam and amber beer, knocking it over with a loud clatter.

Cold liquid ends up splashing across the table, pouring over Cas’ lap. He jumps up, his chair clattering to the ground behind him. 

“Shit, sorry.” Mikey comes around and drops to his knees, the infernal washcloth in his hand again, making a move toward Cas’ crotch.

“It’s alright,” Cas says forcefully, covering his groin with his hands and taking a step back. An embarrassing darkness is spreading and it looks like he’s peed himself. 

“I know a place we can go that’s more private,” Mikey smirks, batting his lashes up at Cas. “We can get these clothes off of ya and—”

“Yes, okay, lets go,” Cas hisses, glancing around the bar. 

Cas leads the way to his car briskly and with his shoulders hunched against the cold. He unlocks his Audi and opens the passenger side for Mikey. 

“Jesus Christ, look at this car. With big bucks like this, you can afford to have me the whole night.”

Cas’ heart sinks with the weight of those words but he gets in behind the wheel.

“So you wanna take those off,” Mikey asks, pointing at Cas’ pants, “and we can get the party started here..?”

Cas shakes his head and starts the engine. “Where were going isn’t far.”

Mikey settles into the heated seat, seemingly enamored by all of the buttons, but after a couple of minutes, Cas feels a hand touch his thigh.

“So whaddya like? Do you want me to choke on your knot, Alpha? Or maybe you wanna knot me? Or are you one of those Alphas that wants to take it because, gotta tell ya, you are one sexy bastard and I’m game for whatever you are. Hell, we can do it all and I’ll even give you the full treatment discount.”

“That’s—could we maybe discuss something else?”

Mikey holds up his hands in surrender. “Yeah, okay, I get it. You’re nervous but we can take all night.”

“How long have you been doing this?” Cas takes a turn and the omega sits up straighter, looking out the window intently. 

“Um, not long. Where we goin’ exactly?” Even though Mikey sounds concerned, Cas can’t sense the Omega’s mental state. Is he happy, anxious, frightened? 

“Why’d you start doing this?”

“Jesus, what’s with the personal questions?”

“I just want to understand,” Cas says, frowning.    
  
“Nothin’ to understand. Some people gotta pay the bills any way they can.” Mikey scoots to the middle of the bench, pressing up against Cas’ side. The hand returns to his thigh, this time uncomfortably higher than the touch from before, Mikey’s lips close to his ear. “And I’m worth every penny,”    
  
“You should buckle up,” Cas says, removing Mikey’s hand. He is completely unaffected by these advances and now he’s worrying his lip because he isn’t exactly following protocol here. Consequences be damned, though, he’s not going to let Mikey be whored out to someone else.   
  
“Safety first,” Mikey murmurs lightly, moving back into his space. The click of his seatbelt being buckled sounds exaggeratedly loud in the enclosed space.   
  
A couple of minutes later Cas pulls into the parking lot of the police station, parks, and turns to Mikey.   
  
“I think you should come inside with me and talk to someone.”   
  
“What the fuck, man? The police?” Mikey fumes.    
  
“We have resources to help you. Please come in and give a statement.”   
  
“Yeah? What’s in it for me, huh?”   
  
“I assume your employer wants money for tonight or else. Well, I’m not giving you money, Mikey. Come inside and talk to someone. Give us names, help us catch assholes like Gerald.”   
  
Mikey bites his lip and looks out the window, considering it, but when he looks back his expression is coy. “You sure you don’t wanna have some fun first? One last hoorah for me before I--”   
  
“No, Mikey. I’m not interested.”   
  
“Why?” Mikey crosses his arms. “You got a mate? Kids? A Catholic grandmother who’d be disappointed in ya?”  
  
“No. Now, let’s go inside quietly and get this over with. I can even stay with you if you want.”   
  
Surprisingly Mikey goes willingly and doesn’t try to make a run for it. They get inside to the elevators and take it up to the floor of the OTTF.    
  
Cas doesn’t have his bearings as he’s only been to the station once. And being so late, there are only a few occupied desks. But it’s obvious that the Captain’s office is the one in the corner with the plaque that reads Captain Robert Singer.

Cas leads the way in that direction when he hears, “Yo, Winchester, is that you?” from near the back of the room. “What’re you doin’ here?”

To Cas’ surprise, Mikey calls back, “Max, hey, get over here.”

A slim and handsome man, with smooth skin like cafe au lait, approaches them. “Holy shit, what did you do to your face?” His hazel eyes take in Cas next and he raises a brow at Mikey. “You brought in a pee-er?”

“Excuse me?” Cas asks. “He didn’t bring me in. I’m bringing him in.”   
  
Mikey claps Cas on the shoulder and chuckles. “Thanks to this guy, I got the fucker and I can sleep in my own goddamn bed tonight.” And then he’s gone, walking away and yelling, “Singer, you better be in there ‘cause I’m comin’ in.”   
  
“What is going on? What just happened?” Cas asks.  
  
Max gives him a look of sympathy. “You’re the new guy who is starting tomorrow, right?”

“Yes?”   
  
“Then I think you better just go in there and find out.”   
  
Yeah, he better. Cas walks to the Captain’s office and raises a hand to knock. The door quickly swings open and Mikey pull him into the room with a finger held up to his face-splitting grin to signal that Cas should be quiet.   
  
An audio tape is playing on a desk in front of Captain Singer, whom Cas already met for one part of his interview.  
  
  
_ “Side job doing what?” Mikey is saying. _   
  
_ “What’d I tell ya about gettin’ smart? C’mere."  _ There’s a brief pause. “ _ You told me you were up for another ‘special’ job so here’s your chance. He’s been watching you and looks loaded, so milk him for all he’s worth.” _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “Doing what exactly?” _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “Are you dense, boy?” Gerald hisses. “Blow him, fuck him--I don’t care. Just remember that he don’t get the goods ‘til you get paid.”  _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “How much do I charge again? You know I’m only seventeen, right?” _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “I don’t give a shit how old ya are. All I care about is that I get my two hundred for lettin’ you skirt your duties here. If you don’t get it, I’m takin’ it from your pay. Capisce?”  _ _   
_ _   
_ __ “Yeah, got it. No sweat, Gerald.”  
  


There’s a click and the tape stops playing. It’s incriminating enough to bring Gerald in, which is great news but...

“You’re undercover,” Cas says blandly. He feels like an absolute fool.

The Omega nods sagely. “I’m Dean Winchester, your new partner. Congratulations. You just passed your first test."   
  


+++

  
Cas is seething.   
  
Not only did Dean know who Cas was the entire time, but he used him. Yes, it was to bring down a small pawn in a much larger sex trafficking ring, but he feels stupid, even though Dean had gone on to praise Cas for using an alias and thinking on his feet, Dean banking on Cas’ obliviousness to what was going on.  
  
Captain Singer’s and Dean’s only qualm was that Cas had picked ‘Mikey’ up and brought him in without having an order to do so but, as Dean had said, _‘We’ll let it slide this time because I can vouch for you for avoiding my advances, and it’s all on tape that you didn’t barter for sex, but ya can’t fuckin’ do that ever again without an order.”_   
  
He then watched in both fascination and disgust as Dean began removing bits of his face, including his nose and bits around his jaw. It took Cas only a moment to realize Dean had used tape, latex facial prosthetics, and an alarming amount of makeup to make him look more youthful.  
  
The end result of the makeup removal had aged Dean by at least a decade, revealing him to be a man closer to Cas’ age, complete with laugh lines and wrinkles and a very defined, chiseled jawline. In a word: stunning.   
  
It’s just too bad he’s an Omega, not to mention Cas’ work partner.   
  
  


 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for this hot mess. I've got this amazing idea in my head but when I sit down to write it out... blarf. So if you want to know just how rough my drafts look like, this is it. It's not quite hitting the mark for me but it'll have to do for now so that I can move on to other prompts. 
> 
> ~TheTwistedWillow~


	16. Heroic Fantasy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean has been taken from his home with promises of riches and a good life for his brother Sam. Except that when he arrives at Shadowhall in secrecy, he finds he has been brought under false pretenses as nothing more than a knot for the Omega prince because the Alpha King cannot impregnate his betrothed. 
> 
> *The following is an excerpt of a longer fic that I'm working on called The Escape of Shadowhall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Promptober Word: HEROIC FANTASY (medieval/fantasy)  
> Rating: this chapter is Teen+ (the entire story will be Explicit)  
> Warnings: ABO Dynamics, Noncon/Dubcon, Violence, Coercion
> 
> There is no rape.
> 
> Again, this is only an excerpt. At this point in the story Dean has arrived at the castle after journeying in a very small, crowded cart with livestock and other goods. Missouri has given him food and provided him a bath. When you begin reading they're at the point in which they're preparing Dean to go up to Castiel's chamber. And, well, ENJOY!

Glass bottles gently tinkle as they’re set on a wooden tray by dark, work-tough hands. The tray itself is extraordinary; edges sanded smooth and pale wood inlaid with intricate designs in a darker shade of timber.

Dean is more accustomed to the rough, round trays that carry ale aloft in a tavern. No one takes care to make a tavern tray pretty but he isn’t in a tavern. Dean is in the kitchen of a king.  
  
Even though he grew up in a hut within the fortified walls of the castle in the neighboring city of Silvermeadow, Dean was often outdoors, in the stables, or in a hunting party alongside his father. John Winchester had made a name for himself and his sons. He was held in high esteem, known in Silvermeadow for being one of King Edlund’s most proficient marksmen and trackers.     
  
It was important to Dean to learn the family business, not toil in the kitchen, and certainly not touch precious items like the tray that is currently set before him. Dean may have lived and worked for the king but he rarely saw the royal family except when the dukes and princes, and even King Edlund himself, wanted to join a hunt.  
  
Dean runs a finger along the edge of the tray and considers how heavy it will be when he needs to lift it. They lack handles. How difficult would it be for a smithy to forge iron handles and then attach them? Hell, even strips of leather or rope would do.  
  
“You must first bathe the intended Omega,” the nearby voice of the King’s personal cook and seer instructs, drawing Dean’s attention away from inventing and back to the task at hand. A task that Dean still isn’t fully clear about.  
  
Missouri side-eyes the guards briefly, her lips pressed together in distaste, but she quickly returns her attention to placing more items on the tray, first setting down a flat razor blade next to a bundle of cloth strips, then a coarse hairbrush, and finally a pair of spring scissors.  
  
“Take care to scrub his neck thoroughly to reduce his own scent,” Missouri continues, lowering her voice so quietly that Dean has to lean in closer to her in order to hear. “And then you’ll take each of these oils in turn and apply them over his skin generously.”

Dean frowns at the colored vials on the tray and looks back to Missouri quizzically. He thought that a large part of mating was for the mates to scent one another. And why in Hades does he, of all people, need to prepare the Omega for another Alpha anyway? And not just any Omega, but His Royal Highness Prince Castiel of Silvermeadow. Dean doesn’t know the first thing in preparing a human, royal or otherwise, for their mating.

Missouri seems to mistake Dean’s confusion for being about the oils because she continues to explain, “Apply them in order.” She taps the glass vial on the far left, and then the rest in turn. “First the myrrh in the gold vial, then sage in green and end with lavender in the blue. Can you remember that? It is important you put them on in that exact order,” she insists.

“Yea, yea,” he agrees quickly because that isn’t why he’s perplexed. Dean’s issue lies with wondering why he was chosen. He imagines names were drawn at random, and without consideration for any of the servant's giftings nor desires.  
  
When John passed away, Dean carried on the family legacy as a master tracker while Sam found more joy in books and became a scribe and tutor after he presented as Beta.

It was after King Edlund passed away that a metaphorical storm ripped through the kingdom. Raphael took temporary seat of the throne, all of Silvermeadow holding their breath in anticipation of the moment when Prince Castiel would present as Alpha and become their true leader. Because only the next Alpha in line can rule.

If Castiel were to present as anything else then Raphael would take power as the rightful successor since the only other direct heir, Prince Gabriel, had run away years prior and has never been seen since.

Just four short days ago, Castiel presented as an Omega.

And Raphael became the Queen of Silvermeadow. Her first order of business was to get rid of Castiel, giving the prince to the neighboring king named Zachariah. She sent the prince to Shadowhall with gifts of livestock, food, and servants.  
  
Dean had been at home the evening that everyone learned of the prince’s fate when a messenger of the queen had arrived to inform Dean that he was personally selected to be sent to Shadowhall. He was promised work and riches that would help to take care of Sam’s continuing studies, and that Sam himself would be given a better home. Dean’s leaving would mean that Sam had to stay behind but orders were orders.  
  
The messenger told Dean to pack nothing because the king would provide everything that Dean would need. When prompted, the messenger wouldn’t even disclose the exact position that Dean would be serving under King Zachariah.  
  
So Dean had that night to rest and say his goodbyes before he found himself herded into that damn cart with the chickens that squawked incessantly. Unlike the prince’s caravan of carts and carriages, Dean was brought a day behind everyone else, and alone, without another carriage in sight. Like a dirty secret.  
  
Dean had assumed he was chosen as part of the Omega’s dowry because of his family’s name because he’d be given a worthy and respectable position. Maybe a hunting leader, since the king was being so generous.  
  
It’s clear to him now that Raphael must have no knowledge of the Winchesters, nor does Zachariah. Because, otherwise, his talents would be put to better use.  
  
“I still don’t understand why I’m the one doing this. I should be out with the rest of the hunters, or at a guard post, or even the livery. I thought that’s what I was brought here to do, not attend to His Highness as a pageboy.”

“Oh dear, I thought you at least knew--” Missouri’s words cut off abruptly, her lips a tight line, and she wrings her hands together nervously.  
  
She looks over at the guards with an expression of despair and discomfort, so Dean follows her line of sight. Both of their faces are as expressionless as plates of slate. As far as Dean can tell, they aren’t listening to a word they’re saying.

But Missouri must disagree because she asks them, “Can you excuse us? It would seem we need to have a discussion regarding private matters of what task His Majesty the King has assigned to Master Dean.”

The guards exchange a bored look before the shorter one says, “Don’t think so.”

“I really must insist, unless you’d prefer I have the King himself come explain to you why you need to defer to me so that I may prepare Castiel’s personal servant for his tasks, and in a timely manner since the kitchen staff need to get back to work.”

“Make it quick,” the taller guard growls, nudging his companion.

They step outside into the courtyard. As soon as the guards are out of earshot, Missouri’s nervous hands stop fidgeting and she grows serious.  
  
“Listen to me, Master Dean,” she urges in a breathy whisper. “Now, I’m sorry you wasn’t fully informed of what is to come, but I won’t mince my words. You’re chosen for this role because you’re handsome, you’re unmated and you have a strong heritage. You’re a _prized_ Alpha,” she says, the words bitter and sarcastic on her tongue. “You’ve been chosen to take care of His Majesty Prince Castiel’s heats because the king cannot.”

“I think I may be becoming hard of hearing because I think you just said I’m supposed to ‘take care’ of the prince’s _heats_ ? I may not be some intellectual but the way you say that sounds like I’m supposed to--”  
He swallows, unable to actually say it but Missouri seems to understand the unsaid and nods.  
  
“Yes, you are,” Missouri confirms. “And it is not to be public knowledge that the King has a hired Alpha for his Omega.”  
  
“But—but that’s not—why would a king leave something like that to another Alpha?”

“King Zachariah is repulsed by the Omega Prince’s scent. Typically it would be a matter of him trying to bed another Omega, but he’s not as healthy and spry as he once was. In fact, none of his Omega concubines have produced pups by him. I’m sure you can guess why he has a special interest in being gifted a prince from the most powerful kingdom in the lands, and why he wants this specific Omega to produce offspring under the pretense of being his own.”

“So he can try to gain power of Silvermeadow,” Dean says grimly before lowering his voice to address the other matter at hand. The matter of him being subjected to some form of forced prostitution. “I don’t want to do this. No one asked me if I wanted to do this. No one so much as _told_ me.”

“Well, I’m tellin’ you now, son. They know all about you Winchesters, that you’re a smart, skilled, and healthy breed.”  
  
“Okay, whoa, I’m not a pig at the market to be examined and bought,” he scolds, crossing his arms over his chest. “Wait, they know about _us_ ? As in, me and my brother?”  
  
Missouri nods solemnly. “Your brother was almost hand-selected to be brought here, like you. They wanted him to translate an old grimoire that His Majesty found in a recent conquest as it is something well beyond my capabilities to decipher. But after observing you back in Silvermeadow they thought it was more important to separate you.”  
  
The thought of them watching him and Sam, without them knowing, and then deliberately tearing them apart makes him livid. “What if I refuse to do this? What else do you know? You told me that you’re a seer so you must know something.”  
  
“My boy, I have seen the divine moving about us and within us for many moons, but I’m not all-knowing. And,” she gives him a wry smile, “when the spirits don’t talk, the castle walls do. The walls talk in the form of the many servants who silently move from chore-to-chore while the rich let their secrets flow like free wine.  
  
“In your case, I’m one of few people who is trusted to know the real truth about why you’ve been brought here. The people of Shadowhall,” Missouri says emphatically, eyes boring into Dean’s like her words have more importance than anything else she’s said thus far, “otherwise know nothing about you or why you’re here.”  
  
Dean is unsettled by her intensity but there are more pressing issues than town gossip mongers. But this at least explains why they have the kitchen to themselves for the time being and are heavily guarded. The king must have wanted Missouri to explain all of this without other servants overhearing.  
  
“As for what will happen if you refuse? The king’s exact words were, ‘ _Make sure Master Dean knows that my spies in Silvermeadow have eyes on Master Sam at all times. Should he reveal the true reason for being here, or refuse to accept this role, he and his brother will not be shown mercy. They will be killed. However, his silence and cooperation will mean that both he and his brother will be taken care of and greatly rewarded._ ’” Missouri delivers the words monotone and with flat lips.  
  
“I swear to the gods, and on the graves of my parents, that if anyone so much as bites their thumb in my brother’s general direction, I will have their heads.”  
  
“Then you know what you must do to protect him.” Missouri searches Dean’s eyes a moment and then she sighs heavily, turning to a cupboard. She reaches up on tiptoes to try to retrieve something as she talks. “A dangerous path lies ahead for you and for Castiel. Here, take this.” She turns and holds out a bundle of folded fabric to Dean. It’s tied tightly with a powder blue ribbon. “Hide it under the tray as you carry it. You’ll know what to do with it when the time comes.”

“Do with it? When the times comes?” Dean echoes numbly.  
  
The time when what comes? When he’s supposed to have sex with some royal prince like it’s a chore, knock him up and watch the king claim their pups as his own? Dean has been in deep horseshit before but nothing comes close to as crazy as this mess.  
  
“Look, how does this even work? Doesn’t the king understand anything about mating? If I--if I do _that_ with the prince, then won’t His Highness and I be bonded? I’d likely rip anyone’s head off who came near the prince, just out of instinct alone.”  
  
Missouri shakes her head. “Many people are arriving in celebration of King Zachariah mating the prince and they’ll expect His Majesty’s marks on the Omega. Tonight, after you bathe the prince and do everything else I told you, you’ll bed him and leave. The king will only go in to scent mark him and bite him after you, and any threat you pose, are gone. You’re not meant to ever come near the king for that very reason. And no one will know if your scent is mingled in there. They will assume the unique scent is simply the King and his betrothed.”  
  
“But,” Dean sputters, “that isn’t how any of this works. He’s insane if he thinks he can pull this off.”

“As much as I agree and wish I could explain everything, we runnin’ out of time,” Missouri rushes on, her big brown eyes troubled as she hefts the tray up and places it in Dean’s waiting hands. “I can see your future, Dean Winchester, and it will all work out accordingly if you let go of your stubbornness and put your trust in Castiel. Listen to him.” Missouri cranes her head to look at the kitchen entry as though she hears something that Dean cannot.  
  
She returns her attention to Dean, her hands reaching up to cradle his where he juggles the bundle of fabric under the heavy tray, momentarily helping him hold up the physical burden. “I just have one final word of advice before you go: remember to look in the hollow of the willow tree.”

Dean stares at Missouri incredulously, opening his mouth to ask her why she’s bringing up some tree, and what exactly he’s supposed to _do_. He quickly snaps it shut, though, when the guards reappear.

“His Highness waits,” the second guard from before announces, the tall one, and Dean tenses.

“Go on now,” Missouri coaxes softly, releasing her hands, the tray once again heavy and unbalanced in his grip.

“Missouri,” Dean pleads.

“You’ll do just fine.” Missouri steps back and folds her hands in front of her. “Remember to trust him.”

Dean reluctantly follows the guards out of the kitchen where there are met by a group of several other servants who wait with pitchers of steaming water. They will more than likely assume that Dean is nothing more than Castiel’s personal servant, brought from the prince’s home of Silvermeadow.  
  
He feels as though he’s being led to the gallows as the group forms a wall around him and they walk through dim corridors.

Dean doesn’t know what state to expect to find the prince in. Will he be weepy because of the wicked turn of fate? Or maybe Castiel feels proud to be in this position, instead of forced into the role of a king? Maybe he is excited? Resigned… depressed… angry?

When they finally reach a locked door somewhere deep in Shadowhall, one of the castle guards steps forward, procuring a key from a cord of leather around his neck to unlock it. The other three guards spread out behind the servants.

The heavy door swings inward and Dean has nowhere to go, nowhere to run. He does the only thing he can do and bows his head submissively as he, and the other servants, are given admittance.

“Your Highness,” Dean greets blandly to the hollow room.

The other servants, also keeping their gaze down in reverence, walk past Dean. He stares at the gold vial filled with myrrh as he waits for instruction on what he’s supposed to do next but no words meet him. He hears only flow of each pitcher pouring into an awaiting basin, for the bath Dean is supposed to give the prince before he--he--.  
  
He can’t help it, but Dean begins to tremble, the glass and metal on his tray tinkling in upset by the involuntary muscle spasms. Dean doesn’t want any part of this. He wants to be back at Silvermeadow with Sam, in their childhood home, hunting game for a king that he actually adored. He doesn’t want to be some sort of concubine, a glorified sex slave, not even if it is to royalty. Especially not to the likes of King Zachariah.  
  
More panic grows deep in Dean’s gut as he continues to wait. Dean worries his lip over the fact that the prince still hasn’t replied to his greeting. If the Omega finds Dean displeasing, will the king still hurt Sam? Perhaps if the prince is asleep Dean can find a way to escape the castle once the guards are dismissed, get to Sam, and find sanctuary...

The other servants retreat now that their task of filling the tub basin is complete. Dean lifts his head slightly to try to discreetly look around. The clanking noise of iron keys, locking Dean into the room, echo clear down to his bones.

Dean _still_ hasn’t heard Castiel speak. He slowly lifts his head more, daring to peek around in order to see if the Omega is asleep. But the bed against a far wall is empty. The room is extremely large, with sheer curtains draping down from the ceiling to partition off the bathing area from the sleeping area, and another that may be a dining area. The flicker of flames from the lanterns, set in various places around the room, throw random dancing shadows across the floors and up the walls.  
  
But near the large canopy bed Dean can make out a small, empty table. Wanting to unburden himself, Dean carefully walks over and places the tray down, sliding the fabric out from under it.  
  
“Who said you could put that there?” a low voice asks behind him.  
  
Dean nearly jumps out of his skin and closes his eyes to compose himself. He takes a deep breath, preparing to turn and face the prince but before he can move, an arm reaches past him to swipe the razor blade off of the tray. Dean instantly goes still when it is then pressed into his neck, the prince’s breath hot behind Dean’s ear.

“Yell for help and it’ll be the last sound you make,” the rough voice threatens. “Understand?”

”I understand,” Dean whispers, swallowing against the sharp blade and trying to not shudder for the Omega’s breath that tickles his delicate flesh.  
  
The proximity and the gentle scent of the Omega Prince that is wafting up to greet Dean aren’t exactly helping the already confusing situation, but Dean can almost feel himself relaxing despite being at the prince’s mercy.

“Did you bring more bed linens with you?” Castiel asks.

Okay… _that_ is an unexpected question and not really worth having his throat slit over. Dean makes a move to shake his head but stops abruptly when the motion causes the razor blade to dig into his flesh just short of breaking the skin.  
  
“No,” he chokes out before hastily correcting his informal remark. “Uh, no, Your Highness.”

“Curses,” Castiel exclaims. He drags the blade higher, pressing the tip into the underside of Dean’s chin. Dean involuntarily leans his head back until it nearly rests on the prince’s shoulder. If it weren’t for the threat of death, the position would be considered intimate with their faces slotted together and Dean’s back pressed tight against the Omega’s chest in a poor effort to avoid the sharp metal. Prince Castiel is a surprisingly solid form.

“I wasn’t aware that you needed bedsheets so desperately,” Dean says carefully, slowly bringing up his hands to show the prince that he’s not a threat. But he had forgotten that he’s not entirely empty-handed. He’s still holding the bundle, now clenched in a tense fist. “If you let me go, I can go fetch some.”

“ _Desperately_ ,” Castiel mocks. “If you were in my position, _desperation_ wouldn’t be adequate enough to describe--.” Castiel seems to notice the bundle because interrupts himself to ask, “What is that?”

“If you’ll put the blade down and let me show you?” Dean says.  
  
“Not a chance. Why can I only barely scent you? And what else did you bring here?”  
  
“I washed before I came here and I only brought what Missouri gave me to bring, including this,” Dean explains, indicating the fabric. But then he curses himself. The bundle may not have been intended for the prince to see. She had told Dean to hide it and use it later when the time was right.  
  
The blade is removed from his chin and Castiel steps away from Dean so abruptly that he nearly falls back on his ass. He keeps his balance and manages to keep his eyes downcast and off of the prince.  
  
“Show me. Unwrap it and place everything on the bed,” Prince Castiel instructs, moving around Dean to replace the blade and look over the other items on the tray.  
  
With shaking hands, Dean unties the pale blue ribbon that holds everything together. He shakes out the top piece and lays it on the bed. It’s a very basic peasant’s tunic, followed by a pair of trousers and garments for a poorer man. They look dingy and worn. The last item is an empty cotton sack.  
  
Dean steps back and stares at each item in puzzlement, dropping his eyes when Castiel steps past him to pick up the tunic. He has to try and breathe through his mouth to avoid scenting the very enticing aroma of an Omega entering their heat, the scent only thickening the longer Dean is near Castiel.  
  
“Tell me your name,” the prince orders.  
  
“Dean.”  
  
“You’re the Alpha that was brought to knot me, to further mock my station?” Castiel asks forcefully.  
  
“I--I’m not certain how to answer that. I only just learned what is expected of me.”

“And yet here you stand,” Castiel challenges. “You still chose to come here and accept your _‘duty’_.”

Dean’s temper flares and he forgets his place. His head snaps up and he looks into Castiel’s face for the first time, speaking heatedly. “Do you really think I have a choice? Do you?”

Castiel arches a brow and his deep blue eyes consider Dean. After a pause--in which Dean greedily drinks in the sharp and angular features of a prince he’s lived near but has never seen--Castiel asks, “What is the first thing Missouri said to do?”

“The first—?” Dean blinks, surprised by the sudden change in subject. “Oh, uh, that I’m supposed to bathe you.”

“Alright.” The prince drops the peasant tunic to the bed and turns to walk toward the bathing area.

In one fluid motion Castiel slips his shirt up and off, letting it fall to the middle of the floor. Dean hates how obvious his heart begins to race, pounding loudly in his ears like how he can hear the echoes of the sea in a seashell--that sort of hollow, loud rhythm.  
  
But he follows the Omega mutely, stepping through the sheer partitions that hang down to partially conceal the bath. When Castiel’s hands move to his trousers, Dean bows his head and stares at the ground. It would be foolish to look at a royal’s nakedness. As it is, he’s not certain how he will help bathe the prince if he can’t see what he’s doing.  
  
“Dean,” Castiel says, almost like a curiosity, the trousers off and kicked over into Dean’s line of sight. “An odd name.”  
  
A tickle of annoyance skitters up Dean’s back, raising his hackles. “I’m named after my grandmother, Deanna.” As an afterthought, he adds, “Your Highness.”  
  
“I really wish you wouldn’t call me that,” Castiel murmurs as he steps into the basin, little splashes of disrupted water landing on the tiles. “After tonight no one will, not ever again.”  
  
Dean lifts his head, forgetting that the prince has just disrobed, but the Omega is already nearly completely lowered in the water. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks as he steps closer to the basin, making ready to take a seat on a small wooden stool set next to the tub.  
  
“What else did Missouri say?” Castiel responds instead of answering. “Did she give you some concoction for the bath?”  
  
“She said I was to wash away as much of your scent as possible?”  
  
“You’re not going to do anything except put the items on that tray into the empty satchel and bring me the clothes that Missouri sent with you. Then you can leave.”  
  
Spurned, Dean leaves the Omega to take care of bathing himself. He’s never heard of a royal doing these basic things alone and it perplexes him. He may not have been thrilled to be chosen to do them, but now he feels like he’s failed some unknown test to be dismissed so quickly.  
  
Still, he has his orders. Dean first brings the clothes to Castiel and leaves them on the stool, taking care to not look at the prince. Then he returns to the tray and starts placing the spring scissors, hairbrush, hard fruits and fabric strips into the empty sack that Missouri had provided. He pauses over the vials of oil.  
  
When Castiel had been looking at the tray he must have moved the bottles around because they’re no longer in a tidy row. Dean knows the gold is first but is green supposed to be next, or blue? Missouri had insisted they be put on Castiel in a specific order.  
  
“Your Highness? I was informed that I am to put these oils on you after the bath.” Dean bites his tongue against telling Castiel they need to be in order. He’ll just have to make the best guess. Besides, why should it matter what order they’re put on in if they’ll all blend together on Castiel’s skin anyway?  
  
“ _Who_ said for you to do that?” Castiel asks suspiciously.  
  
“Missouri. She’s the only person I spoke with.”  
  
“Bring them here.”  
  
Dean gathers the small, delicate glass bottles into one hand, the satchel in the other and turns toward the curtained area. The candlelight is accentuating the outline of the Omega prince as he rises from the water.  
  
Dean’s steps slow as he watches, mesmerized at the sight of Castiel drying off before moving on to pull on the peasant clothing Missouri had provided, his silhouette making a bold impression against the sheer curtain.  
  
“Dean?” Castiel calls.  
  
“Uh, yes. I was filling the satchel. I’m coming.” Dean winces and starts moving toward Castiel again. His eyes are still trained on Castiel’s shadow so he doesn’t see the shirt that Castiel had removed and discarded to the floor only moments earlier.

He doesn’t so much as slip as he gets a foot tangled in it, bringing Dean crashing down to his knees. With nothing else to brace himself, and with full hands, both of his fists come down to stop his forward momentum and keep him from breaking his nose on the tiled floor.  
  
He hears the glass shatter and feels the wetness on his hand, but the pain doesn’t come right away. Nevertheless Dean begins cursing under his breath at the sight of oil and blood and colorful bits of glass.  
  
Without a sound Castiel appears, squatting beside him, and cradling Dean’s injured fist in his hand. Castiel’s other hand pries Dean’s fingers open so that he can begin to pick out the shards. After a dazed few seconds, Dean yanks his hand away, horrified to realize that Castiel is getting his royal hands bloody. Castiel just sighs and reaches around Dean for the abandoned satchel.  
  
“I saw strips of cloth. This is most likely what they’re for,” Castiel says calmly.  
  
“What?” Dean asks in confusion, looking back to his hand. He screwed everything up. He had done one wrong thing after another since entering this room.  
  
“Calm down,” Castiel admonishes. “Missouri knew it would happen.”  
  
“But she--she told me I had to apply these. She said they needed to be in a specific order. They’re supposed to cover your scent or something, because the king--the king--” Dean can’t bring himself to say that the king dislikes Castiel’s scent. Even if he doesn’t agree, even if he isn’t the one who said it, Castiel could very well stab the messenger if he’s offended.  
  
“I am aware of what the king thinks of me, otherwise you wouldn’t be here. But that isn’t why she sent them.” Castiel sniffs gently and Dean finds himself sniffing as well. “What were they supposed to be? I don’t smell anything.”  
  
Dean can’t smell anything either. “Lavender and a couple others.” He’s still on his knees, sitting back on his haunches, so he reaches down to touch the clear liquid with his uninjured hand. “It doesn’t feel oily. She sent water? Why would she say they’re oils?”  
  
Castiel looks just as perplexed as he rises, his brows stitched together in contemplation.  
  
“I’m... not certain. Perhaps they were a concoction for a spell. They had to be applied in order?” Castiel asks and Dean nods. “But she also knew you’d be clumsy enough to break them--”  
  
“Hey,” Dean complains, scrambling to his feet.  
  
“--and cut your hand.” Castiel narrows his eyes at Dean and back at the mess on the floor. “Well, it doesn’t matter now. We must trust it was for a reason and now it’s time for you to leave. Unless she had another message?”  
  
Only for Dean to trust Castiel. And something about a tree, but Dean is certain that part was meant for him.  
  
“That’s it.”  
  
“Then this is goodbye, Dean,” Castiel says, bending down to retrieve the satchel again. He looks like a commoner now. His long hair that was once combed and slicked straight into a ponytail is now drying quickly in a frizzy mess. His clothing is well worn, the white of them dirty and sweat stained.

“You had wanted more bedsheets,” Dean says carefully, all of the clues falling into place, “because you’re running away. You were going to tie them together to make a rope and climb out. That’s why you’re dressed in those--”  
  
He is once again unprepared for the Omega prince to advance on him. But even if he knew Castiel would bunch up the front of his shirt in tight fists and drive Dean’s steps backward until his back was rammed into a stone wall, Dean wouldn’t fight back. Not a crowned prince. Not an Omega who is flushed with heat.    
  
Castiel is only inches from his face when he harshly whispers, “I didn’t think a Knothead would be smart enough to figure it out.”  
  
“You,” Dean gasps, trying to catch his breath, “thought… you were… Alpha. Once.” It’s a low-blow, he knows, but he really hates being reduced to being someone who only thinks with his dick.    
  
Castiel’s nostrils flare and his eyes flash a hint of gold that is most likely meant to be intimidating, but Dean only finds it all the more alluring. “You should have taken your leave. Now, I’m going to have to kill you. I can’t have witnesses.”  
  
“No,” Dean breathes shakily, still trying to catch his breath after having had the wind knocked out of him from the impact. “Don’t.”  
  
“I would be a fool to spare you. You’d tell them I’ve gone before I’ve even gotten to the gate, and then we’d both be dead.”  
  
“Leave me here and I’ll be dead anyway,” Dean grunts.  
  
Castiel’s scent is weak from the bath but it still lingers. It is confusing Dean. He tries to focus on Castiel’s anger instead of the Omega’s eyes and lips, and how close his body leans in.  
  
“You think they’d let me live,” Dean continues, “when they find you’ve escaped in my presence? Even if I am injured and I tell them that you overpowered me? I’m an Alpha and you’re an Omega. You can’t have fought me and won. You’re supposed to be the weak--”  
  
Dean swears he sees stars when the punch comes. He’s as stunned as he is impressed, but he’s also getting just as angry as the Omega. Castiel isn’t the only one in this predicament.  
  
“I am not weak,” Castiel hisses, shaking Dean. “I am still the same man I was before, and I _can_ overpower you.”  
  
“Then do it. Go ahead if it makes you feel bigger and better,” Dean yells, taunting the Omega.  
  
He can see the flare of anger in Castiel’s eyes, feel the twitch of Castiel’s fist as the prince debates reeling it back again. But Castiel’s tension deflates and he shakes his head.  
  
“No. I don’t have to prove anything to you. Like you said, you’re a dead man either way.”  
  
With one last weaker shove into the wall, Dean is released from Castiel’s hold. As he watches Castiel walk back to the bathing area to yank down one of the sheer panels of fabric, an idea comes to Dean.  
  
He had wanted to escape on his own, never anticipating the prince himself would be planning the same. Dean needs to get to Sam. What if they escape together and then go their separate ways?  
  
“I’ll go with you. I can help you.”  
  
“No,” Castiel says. “A man will say anything to spare his life and then turn on their savior the first moment that they find. I’m tying you up and leaving you here for the king to deal with. Killing you myself is too messy and you’ve already wasted much of my time.”  
  
“You think this is about me? That I care about _my_ life?” Dean asks incredulously. “Missouri said they know about my brother and will kill him if I fail. I need to get back to Silvermeadow to save him because your escape won’t just cause my death, it’ll mean his death, too. He doesn’t even know he’s in danger.”  
  
“Silvermeadow?” The hard lines of Castiel’s face soften in surprise, a crack in his stoic expression.  
  
“Yes. I grew up there. My father hunted with your father.” Dean can see the crack widening and for the first time he feels like the prince is actually seeing _him_ . “I was brought here, but not Sam. He’s the leverage that the king has on me. I came up here to your room to do what I’m told to keep him safe. I’d do anything for my brother. _Anything_ .”  
  
Castiel visibly swallows and looks away from Dean. “You’re a Winchester,” Castiel says.  
  
“You’ve heard of us then?”  
  
“Of course,” Castiel scoffs. “My father spoke highly of your family. So I can assume you’re a skilled hunter and you know the ways of the common people.” Castiel drops the sheer fabric that he was most likely going to use to tie Dean up with. “You can be useful then. But if you cross me, I’ll slit your throat. Slow me down and I will leave you behind.”  
  
Hope ignites so furiously in Dean’s chest that he actually has to force himself to refrain from gathering up the Omega in a crushing hug. It is something he would’ve done with Sam or any of his men in victory. But he can’t do that with Castiel.  
  
Instead Dean gives a perfunctory nod and holds his hand out for the satchel. “Guess I’ll be the mule then.”  
  
“I don’t need an Alpha, Dean Winchester, to hold my bag. You are only coming because you are useful in ways that I was, unfortunately, not educated in due to my station. Not,” he emphasizes heatedly, “my sex. You are my map, nothing more.”  
  
To prove that he’s serious about his independence, Castiel uses the excess drawstring to tie the bag around his waist, the bag full of items resting just behind his right hip.  
  
“As you wish, Your Highness,” Dean says, unable to help the tone of sarcasm.  
  
“You must stop calling me that. Really, it shouldn’t be a problem for you, considering you have been very informal in my presence from the moment you arrived. Were you never taught how to act in the presence of a prince?”  
  
“Mostly stayed in the tavern and in hunting circles.”  
  
Castiel frowns. “We will discuss everything later. I’m growing anxious to leave.”  
  
After a quick discussion on how to first escape the locked room--the idea of trying to tie bed sheets and curtains together to climb out the window is so preposterous to Dean that he nixes the idea instantly--they finally decide to ambush the guards outside the door.  
  
Dean steps up to the wall just to the side of the doorway, knees bent slightly, poised to attack. Castiel raises a fist to knock, calling out, “Guards,” and taking several steps back so that he can draw the men into the room.  
  
Beneath the heavy clank of metal keys being fitted into the lock and turning, Dean can hear his ragged breath. He’s nervous but he’s also abuzz with the same feeling he gets right before he shoots an arrow between the eyes of a stag.  
  
The heavy door groans on it’s iron hinges as it slowly swings into the room.  
  
They have no weapons, only the element of surprise, which works in their favor when Dean shoves the door hard into the guards who have stepped into the room in order to bow to the prince.  
  
While they’re still disoriented, Dean and Castiel each throw punches until the guards an unconscious heaps on the floor.  
  
“This is much easier than doing this on my own,” Castiel grunts as they drag the men deep into the furthest corners of the room and use panels of fabric to tie them up, gagging them.  
  
“You’re welcome,” Dean says just as breathlessly. “What next?”  
  
“Next, we walk out,” Castiel says simply, walking past Dean. “Nearly everyone is on the north side for the… festivities,” Castiel says bitingly. “There may be a few random people but no one will suspect I’m the prince, not dressed like this.”  
  
Dean sniffs deeply and follows the Omega out of the room and down the empty corridor.  
  
“The more active you become, the stronger your scent will be,” Dean says. “Taking those guards down worked up a sweat. They’ll track us. We don’t have anything to mask your scent.”  
  
“Nor yours,” Castiel muses quietly.  
  
“Mine? I’ve just arrived here and they don’t know my scent.”  
  
“They do now. They have your blood,” Castiel says, referring to the mess of blood and broken glass they left back in Castiel’s chamber.  
  
“Then what do we do?” Dean whispers.  
  
Castiel stops abruptly and turns to face Dean, causing the Alpha to draw up short. “You’re the master hunter and you need to prove your use--”  
  
“What? What do you call knocking out the guards back there? I wasn’t sitting on my thumbs, Your High--”  
  
Fingers press to Dean’s lips, halting his words.  
  
“Don’t call me that.”  
  
“Fine.” Dean licks his lips after Castiel removes his hand. “Then,” Dean hesitates. He takes a deep breath, thankful that he can avoid Castiel’s eyes as they continue walking. “The only thing we have is each other.”  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
“It’s nothing… bad. If we can blend our scents then we’ll smell entirely differ--”  
  
“You want to scent bond,” Castiel deadpans. Dean can practically feel his displeasure.  
  
“I don’t _want_ to do anything except get out of here. And if that’s what we have to do to get free, then it’s a small price to pay. At least a scent bond is easily broken,” he lies. “For now I’ll only try to mark you so that you’re not as recognizable since your grand idea of an escape is to simply walk out of the castle like it’s nothing.”  
  
Castiel sighs like this decision is the greatest burden he will ever face. Fingers encircle Dean’s wrist and he’s tugged toward an alcove near a large window.  
  
“What do we do?” Castiel asks, tipping his chin up obstinately even as he agrees, like every fiber of his being wants to fight the idea but he’ll push through and do it anyway.  
  
Dean looks into azure eyes, illuminated into glistening orbs by the nearly full moon outside the window. He looks down to where Castiel is still gripping his wrist and lifts it slowly, both of their hands coming up together.  
  
“There are scent glands here,” Dean whispers, using his free hand to brush a finger along the smooth flesh of Castiel’s wrist. “And here.” Dean brushes fingertips from one side of the hollow of Castiel’s neck to the other.  
  
“Yes, I know where they are,” Castiel huffs, a shy pink hue rising to his cheeks. The Omega shuffles on his feet. “What do we need to _do_ ?”  
  
“Think of something that makes you feel a strong emotion, like happiness or fear. And don’t give me that, ‘I’m a royal prince so I’m not afraid anything,’ manure.”  
  
Castiel smirks. “You were plenty afraid earlier, when you first came to my room. I could scent your nervousness.”  
  
Dean grumbles under his breath and grabs Castiel’s arm, unceremoniously rubbing their wrists together roughly, sniffing at them until he’s satisfied Castiel is at least covered there. Now comes the more awkward part.  
  
“We should hurry,” Castiel says, watching Dean with a strange, confused expression. The Omega’s breathing is slightly labored, even though it hadn’t been just seconds before. They’re not even doing anything but standing here--for far too long now that Dean thinks about it.  
  
“Okay, there’s just not really another way,” Dean mumbles to himself. He crowds the Omega and leans down to find the places along Castiel’s collarbone where his scent should be strongest. When he feels Castiel leaning back, instinctively trying to back away from him, Dean grips his biceps to keep Castiel in place.  
  
“Do you think--Are you done?” Castiel asks huskily.  
  
“Almost, but you’ve got to hold still,” Dean whispers back, turning his face so he can rub his cheek gently over Castiel’s skin. Once again Castiel tries to move, leaning his head far back in an effort to pull away from Dean.  
  
Dean releases Castiel and wraps his arms around the Omega instead, cupping the back of Castiel’s neck with one hand, the other flat against Castiel’s back as he continues to mark him.  
  
“I’m trying to help you,” Dean admonishes as the Omega squirms uncomfortably.  
  
He breathes in Castiel’s scent again, happy to find that Castiel smells like him, like protective Alpha. He releases the tense man completely and steps back, finding Castiel flushed and his pupils blown wide.  
  
“I’m just not used to being... touched.” Castiel pulls himself to his full height, brushing away imaginary dust from his clothes.  
  
It doesn’t take much for Dean to deduce that Castiel is repelled by Dean, disgusted to have a commoner rub all over him. But Dean has more important things to worry about than his feelings--things like not getting caught--and that means making sure Castiel doesn’t attract unwanted attention.  
  
“Okay, keep your head down and let’s keep moving,” he orders brusquely. “If we’re lucky, people will just ignore us.”  
  
“Who said you’re taking charge?” Castiel says, bowing his head obediently, his long hair falling into his face. Dean ruffles it so it looks even more unkempt.  
  
“Me. No one would dare talk to a prince, undercover or not, like I’m talking to you. Which makes you even less suspicious if I’m not groveling at your feet. You’re an Omega, covered in my scent, and no one here knows who I am to question whether you’re with me or not,” Dean says matter-o-factly and he instantly remembers Missouri’s emphasis on this statement. “No one knows who I am,” he says again, in wonder.  
  
“Yes? And?”  
  
“Then walking out of here, right under their noses and in plain sight, might actually work.” If he ever sees Missouri again he will sweep her off of her feet and give her the biggest kiss of her life. “Where is the corridor for the servants? We’ll go out the back.”  
  
“Of course we’ll go out the back. I’ve already been leading us that way. The King will be arriving to my chambers from the other direction, most likely within the hour.”  
  
Dean follows as Castiel continues to lead them through a maze of long halls and stairs. Just when Dean thinks they’ll make it out of area with all of the sleeping quarters, they come across a slightly inebriated man as he stumbles out of just such a room. Judging by the appearance of his clothes he’s a nobleman, too.  
  
Unfortunately Sir Drunk Nobleman notices them. “You, halt,” the man slurs, waving a finger toward Dean.  
  
Dean stops before the man, pulling Castiel slightly behind him, and bows briefly. He can’t see Castiel but Dean hopes that Castiel doesn’t look up and get recognized. The man scents at them and wrinkles his nose in disgust.  
  
“Fe-fetch me some wa’er.”  
  
“Yes, sir,” Dean says. “It will be just a moment.”  
  
“Be sure you’re quick,” the man snaps. “And for gods’ sake, d-don’t bring that Omega back... when you return.”  
  
“Yes, sir,” Dean says again, this time more stiffly. He turns and pulls Castiel along with him, hurriedly going down the hall until they finally come to the stairs that the servants take down to the kitchen.  
  
“That pompous, crooked nose knave,” Castiel fumes. “I’ll come back alright, and shove a blade into his repulsive gut.”  
  
“Whoa, first, you don’t even have a sword. And second, I didn’t know princes talked like that.”  
  
“Then you’re in for a lot of surprises. I’m not like most.”  
  
“Let’s just get out of here. The sooner we’re out of the castle, the better I’ll feel. Then I can find my brother and--and--well, I don’t know yet. But me and him will figure it out. Where are you going to go?”  
  
“I hadn’t thought that far ahead,” Castiel admits. “As far away as possible. I just know that I can’t stay here and I can’t go back to Silvermeadow.”  
  
They reach kitchen that Dean had been not all that long ago. Earlier it was quiet but now, even though the hour is late, the kitchen is bustling with activity. It would appear that many servants are having their dinners now that the royal family and guests have been fed.  
  
Steeling himself to make it through the throng without drawing attention, Dean reaches back to take Castiel by the wrist, pulling the Omega along as he makes way through the people who are laughing and talking. It’s a familiar sight for Dean, when most of the help relaxes before retiring to bed, but it has to be quite a sight for the prince.  
  
Just as they get near the doorway that leads out into the garden which leads to the ward, Dean is stopped by a large hand. “Haven’t seen you before,” a blond man says suspiciously when Dean looks up into his face. “You one of the new ones, brought over from King Edlund’s old place?”  
  
“It’s Queen Raphael’s place now,” someone else calls out.  
  
“Oy, like I ain’t know that,” the man scoffs over his shoulder. “We only gots his fair prince to wait on hand-n-foot. So is ya, or isn’t ya, from Silvermeadow?”  
  
“That’s enough, Gorg,” a familiar voice says over the din. She doesn’t even have to raise her voice for the impact to be felt, and the noisy kitchen settles into a low thrum of whispers.  
  
Gorg grunts at her and turns away from Dean and Castiel and Missouri walks forward to take his place.

“That’s quite a shiner you got on your cheek.”  
  
Dean lifts his bandaged hand to touch the bruising skin where Castiel had punched him. Missouri laughs and holds out a carry-sack to Dean. It isn’t very large, but it has a long strap on it that will make carrying it convenient.  
  
“If you’re headin’ out, save my back a trip, woulda? Apples, for the horses.” She shakes the bag a little and Dean takes it gingerly.  
  
“Thank you,” he says as earnestly as he can. He knows she’s the reason they’ve gotten at least this far, and he knows she’ll understand.  
  
“What you thankin’ me for? You’re the one doing me a favor,” she says with a laugh and a twinkle in her eye. Mindful of the many gossipers crowding the kitchen she simply spares each of them a glance and a smile. “Bye now, fellas.”  
  
Dean is still gripping Castiel’s wrist and he guides him out of the bright, smoky kitchen and out into the cooler air of twilight. He reluctantly lets go and walks briskly toward the wall to step into the shadows, Castiel following close.  
  
Unlike Silvermeadow, which has a small town within the curtain wall, Shadowhall does not. The ward is a vast grassy void of human life, but the shadowy figures of guards pacing the high walls and standing vigil in the towers does not go unnoticed by Dean.  
  
He takes a moment to peek into the bag to find that it contains food, things that Missouri couldn’t have snuck up with Dean earlier without it being suspicious, he supposes.    
  
“Alright, we walk until we find a place to climb over. Do you recall if the castle has a moat? I was stuffed inside a covered cart and didn’t get to see.”  
  
“No, or at least it isn’t a full moat. There may be water on any number of sides that I haven’t yet seen.”  
  
“Then we go through the forest.”  
  
“Dean,” Castiel says sharply. “Have you not heard the stories of the forests in this land?”  
  
“Of course I have. Come on, don’t tell me the prince is scared. Where’s your sense of adventure?”  
  
“Apparently I left it behind, along with my dignity,” Castiel says dryly.  
  
Dean bites back a laugh and Castiel narrows his eyes.  
  
Still shaking his head and trying to hold back a laugh, Dean puts the carry-sack around his neck. They walk along the wall for nearly thirty minutes in silence before Dean finds the perfect escape route that they need. The forest that backs one side of the castle has grown over the castle walls. Large branches sweep down just low enough that they can reach if they jump.  
  
Without a word, they seem to both understand what they need to do. Dean isn’t sure how fit the Omega is but he’s grateful for his upbringing. His back isn’t exactly happy about his ride to Shadowhall but he’s strong. He’s climbed many trees and has the stamina needed to make the jump and pull himself along the branches.  
  
But before he does, he needs to make sure Castiel can get over. It’s unexplainable, even to him, but he has to make sure that Castiel will be alright first.  
  
“Can you promise me something? If something happens to me, can you get word to my brother, Samuel Winchester? Tell him to run, to hide?”  
  
“Dean, stop being ridiculous. We’re both getting over. Now be quiet or we’ll both get caught.”  
  
“Do you need a lift?” Dean asks, looking up at the branches to find the one that looks thickest and sturdy enough to support his weight. A rustling sound distracts him and he looks over his shoulder to see Castiel dangling from a branch.  
  
Once Castiel gets a good grip, he relaxes his legs and then starts swinging back and forth in a deliberate motion until he can bring them all the way up, hooking his ankles above the branch.  
  
Dean shakes his head. “You look ridiculous.”  
  
But now it’s his turn, and in no time Dean is also crawling upside down along his own branch until it becomes too thick for him to keep his legs around it. His hand is throbbing but adrenaline is at least working in his favor so that he doesn’t feel pain so excruciating that he can’t make the climb further and further up the tree.  
  
This is the part he hates. He may have the experience and the strength, but he hates how high up he has to go. He doesn’t know if it being dark makes it better or worse that he can’t see the ground when he risks looking down.  
  
“Are you alright?” Castiel whispers in concern.  
  
Sweat trickles down Dean’s temple. “‘M good. Just need to try to get on top of the branch without breaking my neck.”  
  
“Shh,” Castiel warns.  
  
“Well, you asked,” Dean mutters.  
  
By the time they make it up into the tree on the other side of the castle wall, and back down to the forest floor, Dean is scraped and stiff, his legs are shaking, and he’s drenched in anxiety-scented sweat. His cut hand feels both raw and numb at the same time.  
  
Castiel lands like a cat next to where Dean has weakly slumped to the ground to try and catch his breath and re-wrap his injured hand.  
  
“I hope you’re well-rested, Dean. It won’t be long before those guards are found to be missing, and soon after that found in my chambers. We walk all night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so far so good for their escape. Seemed kinda easy but don't let that fool you. Things will get increasingly more difficult as they flee and simultaneously grow closer together. They'll be met with magick and creatures in the forest that test them to the boundaries of belief and sanity. 
> 
> The forest parts of the story are inspired by a few Princess Bride elements as well as A Midsummer Night's Dream. There are time warps, gypsies, fae, beasts, quicksand, etc. 
> 
> I'm excited about this one. If you're excited, too, be sure to let me know. This fic is not currently on my NaNoWriMo list for next month but I may add it if there's interest.
> 
>  
> 
> ~TheTwistedWillow~


	17. Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean tries to summon his Familiar and gets a disgruntled, naked angel instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Promptober word: WINGS  
> Rating: Teen+  
> Warnings: None

Every Samhain, when the veil between realms is the thinnest, more experienced Enchanters can summon unto themselves a familiar spirit. It is common knowledge that these familiar spirits, or Familiars, are companions who not only help to boost magick and energies, but also provide much-needed emotional stability.  
  
Except that Familiars aren’t just pets. They merely appear in the form of an animal and, contrary to popular belief, they do not shapeshift to become human. They’re intelligent, cognizant of human ways and of spoken language. Many witches can bond so strongly with their Familiar that they even develop a telepathic link.   
  
As for what draws a Familiar to a specific Enchanter, it is widely believed that these spirits and the spirit of the witch actually call to one another, pieces of a single broken soul that seek to be reunited.   
  
To Dean, it’s always just seemed like a game, like Pokemon. Which one are you gonna get?   
  
So it stands to reason that on the night he chooses to summon his Familiar, it is wrought with excitement and anixety, but mostly anticipation. Growing up, he always envisioned that he’d have a white tiger or a timber wolf. Sometimes he would have nightmares of his call being answered by a mouse. Not that mice suck or anything, because they can get into pretty tight spaces, but Dean has always felt that his Familiar would be special. Unique. Different.   
  
He should’ve been careful with his errant daydreams and wishful thinking because standing before him, through the plume of smoke that rises up from within his summoning circle, is a very disgruntled and naked man.   
  
“Um,” Dean stares, dumbfounded. “Hello. I think I dialed the wrong number…”   
  
The person—creature?—tilts his head like a dog does when they’re perplexed, but his eyes narrow in what can only be irritation.

Puzzled, Dean looks down at his open spellbook. “Uh, look, sorry if I pulled you away from a shower or whatever. I probably did the wrong summoning or mixed something up...”

“Dean.”

Dean’s head whips up. “How’d you know my name?”

“I am in your thoughts,” the man says smoothly, like that isn’t at all creepy.   
  
Dean eyes the man skeptically, trying to keep his eyes on his face and away from any erroneous areas. “You’re clearly not a Familiar. For one, only Familiars and their Enchanter can develop a bond like that, and only over time and with a lot of trust. And second, I don’t hear your thoughts.”   
  
“Clearly.”   
  
A dark shadow moves behind the man then.

Dean watches in astonishment as the shadow swells and splits into two dark masses. They gently wave away the lingering smoke until Dean can finally make out what they are.

Black wings with variegated purple shimmer settle into large arches behind the man in an intimidating display of dominance.

“What are you?”

“I’m Castiel.”

“What the fuck is a Castiel?” Dean snaps, getting angry. This isn’t how the summoning was supposed to go. He should have a _Familiar_ , not a pissy bird man.

“That is what I am called.”  
  
“But how are _you_ here? And how are you in my thoughts?   
  
“I’m here because you summoned me. I am in your thoughts because we are bonded.” This Castiel thing tilts his head again. “How is that difficult to understand?”   
  
Throwing up his hands, Dean shakes his head and sputters. “Well, if you’re in my head then why don’t you figure out just why I’m havin’ a hard time wrapping my head around the fact that you’re standing here instead of a fox or friggin’ Bambi.”   
  
Dean feels a warmth at his temples. It spreads across his scalp and tickles its way down each vertebrae of his spine. A soft voice, one that isn’t his own, begins speaking in his mind. Except it isn’t exactly speaking so much as being thought at him.   
  
_“You were hoping for a different creature,”_ this thing thinks in Dean’s mind with a tone of comprehension. _“These Familiars are important to you.”_   
  
“Hey,” Dean yells, wagging a finger at the man. “Get the hell out of my head. And--and--cover up your damn junk or somethin’ while you’re at it.”   
  
“Release me from the circle,” Castiel says in his normal voice.   
  
“Nuh-uh, no way. I still don’t know what you are. Are you a sorcerer? Is this some kind of prank?”   
  
“I’m an angel.”   
  
Now Dean is really angry. His mom always had this thing she’d say to him about angels and if this is some way to fuck with him… He approaches the circle hotly. “This ain’t a fuckin’ joke. I’m only gonna ask you one more time--”   
  
Castiel takes a step outside of the circle, his wings spreading wide, the tips grazing not only the ceiling but also either wall in Dean’s small apartment.   
  
Dean stumbles backward, trips and falls on his ass. He scoots away uselessly until his back is up against his couch, Castiel slowly approaching him, the protection symbols utterly useless against this being.   
  
“I was asking to be released to be polite but, as you can see, I’m an angel and your circle lacks specific elements in order to hold me captive. Now,” Castiel crouches next to Dean, “we have work to do.”   
  



	18. Pirate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a time when truemates are believed to be nothing more than a fairy~tale, Dean learns firsthand what such power a bond like it can create when he unexpectedly comes face-to-face with an Omega stowaway who is in heat aboard his pirate ship. 
> 
> This is basically porn without plot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Promptober Word: PIRATE  
> Rating: Explicit  
> Warning: ABO Dynamics, Knotting, Bare-backing, Sexual Content
> 
> **Might also consider this Dubcon for some because it reads as though they lack control. I've been asked to tag that before and don't want to trigger anyone so proceed with caution. They ARE influenced greatly by their hormones here.

Dean snarls and pounds on the petrified oak door that was just slammed in his face. “You’re gonna pay for this, asshole,” he bellows. 

The ship beneath him answers with a mighty roll but Dean was born with sea legs and naturally moves with it as easy and automatic as breathing. 

Which Dean tries to do. Breathe, that is. But he’s so damn mad, expending his pent-up rage by pacing in front of the barricaded door. 

With another roar of indignation, Dean punches the door, chest heaving. 

It wasn’t all his fault. The other guys were throwing punches, too. But they had the  _ audacity _ to toss only him in here? And with the barrels of rotting vegetables and salted meats, like he’s no better than swine?

Dean heaves in a deep breath and stops what he's doing when he picks up a scent that smells… off. 

There’s the typical ship smells, musty and sulfuric from the sea. He can even smell the aforementioned produce. But there’s something lingering above it all in a sweet note. 

And all Dean knows right at this very moment is that he has to find it. 

Tipping his chin up he takes in long, deep inhales through his nose. 

_ Where is it? _

_ What is it? _

His anger all but forgotten, Dean turns his attention to the task of investigating the smell. It’s like nothing he knows nor recalls scenting before. If it was something familiar, like his late mother’s perfume, then he’d understand his urgent need more readily because he feels like he’s chasing down  _ comfort _ and  _ home _ as he’s never known it to be before.    
  
For a pirate who lives in a secluded bubble of the same pirate crew, bouncing along the waves of the sea from one port to the next, a home is a most preposterous notion. But his traveling is born from a conditioning to follow orders and lifestyle not created of his own consent. For as long as he can remember, though he’s never told a soul, Dean has longed to belong somewhere… or to someone. 

He pries off the lid of the barrel closest to him and finds rancid, wrinkled potatoes that are covered in sprouted eyes. He gags and shoves the lid back on to contain the putrid, noxious smell. 

Then he looks through another barrel and a few crates. The room is large and his fingers begin to ache from his task. It’s going to take him all day at this rate and he needs to find the origin of the smell  **_now_ ** .    
  
He has an urgent hunger for it and though it is sweet--like honey and spiced-vanilla biscuits--he has come to the realization that it belongs not to food but to another human. And he knows that they’re hiding from him as he stalks the enormous stores.

Without lantern, and with minimal light coming through the portholes, there are many shadows. His eyes are adjusted enough to make out shapes but not see very clearly. He skims the room slowly, looking for any sign of movement. 

He turns his ear and tries to tune out the ever-present creaking of the ship’s timbers and the slapping of water against her swollen sides. 

And that’s when he hears it, a soft sneeze. 

He snaps his head in the direction it came from and boldly goes to investigate. 

The closer he gets, the more fragrant the heady perfume becomes. It’s making him feel sluggish, like his head is underwater or he’s had too much drink, and yet he’s helpless to its beckoning call. 

He needs it in whatever way he can have it. He is willing to let it consume him, and him it. He needs it wrapped around him, inside of him, and pulsing through his veins. 

He’s almost to the far corner where the sneeze had come from when he sees movement. Dean reaches the crate that is blocking him from his sought-for treasure and pulls it away, meeting with frightened blue eyes and dirty, tear-streaked cheeks. 

He doesn’t know why but his heart mourns the sight and this ruthless pirate finds himself kneeling down and caressing the stranger’s cheeks as though he’s just discovered the most precious of all fortunes. 

The blue eyes flutter closed and Dean is surprised when wet cheeks nuzzle his hand, welcoming the touch. How long has the stowaway been hiding and been without human contact to be so willing to take it from someone as harsh and intimidating as a rugged pirate?

The man’s face is burning up beneath Dean's palms and Dean feels a bloom of concern that overtakes the unexpected, steadily increasing arousal that he’s been feeling since first scenting the man.   
  
“You hurt? Sick?” 

The face nods in his hands and the man opens his eyes again, the depths of blue as vast as the ocean they sail on. A tongue darts out to wet dry lips and Dean is hypnotized by the one small movement.

“What is this magick?” Dean whispers, leaning back on his haunches, taking his sweating hands away to rub them dry against his thighs. “What have you done to me?”

“I haven’t—“ the man stops to clear his unused voice. “I haven’t done anything.” More of the scent begins to permeate the cramped space where the man is slouched against the wall and Dean is horrified to find blood rushing to his cock in response. 

“I don’t believe you. Who are you?” he demands. 

“Castiel.”

“I should kill you,” Dean says, though it is without menace, eyes raking over the resigned expression the settles over Castiel’s face. “Stowaways aren’t treated too kindly on a pirate ship. Or any ship for that matter.”

Even as he says it, Dean knows he’d kill anyone who finds Castiel. If anyone so much as _looks_ at him with ill intentions there’ll be hell to pay. He doesn’t know why but he has to keep the man safe. He has to keep him to  _ himself _ . 

If found by certain company he’d become a plaything, used up for sex and then tortured until he was limp, unresponsive, and unable to serve a purpose any longer. Their broken toy then tossed overboard as chum. The very thought that anyone could do that to  _ this _ man makes Dean howl with rage inside.  

“Mine,” Dean grunts, the word dragged from his mouth even as he tries to hold it back like an involuntary word hiccup.

Castiel’s brows rise in surprise but he doesn’t deny Dean's verbal claim. Ocean blue eyes look back and forth over Dean’s face, searching for something, nostrils flaring as the man breathes Dean's scent in. Castiel’s eyes glaze over a little like he’s found it. He’s found that thing he was searching for in the thickening air around them. 

More honey-sweet perfume invades Dean’s olfactory senses and his cock actually throbs in an effort to make itself even more plump than than its current state. Dean groans and presses a palm to it through his pants to try and tame it but that only makes it less bearable. 

Castiel’s eyes follow the movement before snapping back up to Dean’s face. 

“What are you? What is that smell? It’s… doing things.” Dean usually has some say in when he’s turned on. He is a healthy, young Alpha, after all. But this is different and involuntary, his body acting of its own accord. “Are you a voodoo doctor? A witch?”

This is involuntary to a degree that is going to make him do something that he may regret if he doesn’t get away from Castiel. It has to be some spell. Maybe a siren come to entice Dean and then take him swiftly into death...

Head cocked to the side, Castiel tells him, “It's my heat. I’m an Omega,” like it’s the most obvious answer on all the seas. 

Dean knows what Omegas are, of course. He was a landlubber as a child, his own mother an Omega. But when she died all those years ago, John Winchester took his sons to ship and amassed a crew. An all-Alpha pirate crew. 

They’ve docked in many places, plundered and met with a few Omegas, but none ever in heat. No one ever warned him that an Omega _could_ wield this kind of power. And no one ever told Dean it could feel like  _ this _ . Like desire that expands beyond carnal lust, like contentment, like wholeness.  

And it is that power that is causing Dean to debate between comforting Castiel or ravaging him. The fact that he wants to do either unsettles Dean more than anything. Because if he does do either, if he takes that step that causes him to mate this man, he fears he won’t be able to let go. He is risking his lifestyle and livelihood, all for a stranger's scent.  

“How long has it been,” Dean asks huskily, “since you’ve eaten?” He watches a trickle of sweat glide slowly down Castiel’s temple. He wants to lick it up. He wants to lick and bite Castiel all over. 

With a minute shake of his head Castiel whispers back, just as huskily, “Not hungry.”

Castiel puts his feet under him and slowly rises with his back against the wall. Dean can’t tear his eyes away, locked onto his prey. If the Omega tries to run he won’t get far anyway, so Dean calmly watches and waits to see what Castiel is going to do.

And what he does is unexpected. The Omega lifts the hem of his filthy shirt, shedding it and tossing it onto a nearby crate. Dean’s nostrils flare and he can hear himself rumbling but it sounds far off, like he’s here but not. Something else has taken over.

“I’m… dirty," Castiel stutters. "I haven’t bathed—“

“I don’t care, I don’t care,” Dean whispers, eyes riveted on the Omega hands which hover over the waistband of his tattered pants. They finally lower down into a pool of fabric and Castiel steps out of them.

Dean's breath hitches. Castiel is beautiful--standing before him ready, willing, hard. All of the trapped heat and scent has been released from the confines of the fabrics and now heavily saturate the air to the point they're drenched in it. Dean couldn't stop himself from gulping in the high dosage of Omega scent even if he wanted to. 

He shoots to his feet when Castiel turns away from him but the Omega doesn’t go far. Castiel looks to be finding an appropriate place to present to Dean that isn't the dirty floor since a nest is otherwise impossible to make unless they lay in soggy lettuce. Castiel ends up choosing a thigh-high crate that he leans down over, his hips canted upward in invitation. 

The moment Castiel’s back is turned, Dean is on him, palms running over hot, flushed skin. He drags his tongue up the trembling Omega’s spinal column, stopping at each knob to plant a kiss until he reaches just behind one of Castiel’s ear.

“I need you, I need you,” Dean whispers breath ghosting over flesh. “More than anything else, I need you.”

He still doesn’t understand it but his entire world has become narrowed down to blue eyes and honey and hot skin. 

Dean’s hands roam over hills and valleys of the Omega’s body until he comes to the glistening river of slick in the crease of his ass. Dean dips a finger in, just between the cheeks and no further, wetting it and bringing it to his lips. 

With the one lick and Dean feels like he’s drowned in a barrel of bumbo, drunk with want. He growls and spreads the Omega’s cheeks. He expects an exclamation of protest but receives an answering moan of encouragement instead. 

Dean is used to taking what he wants, but there is usually a plan and a reason. There is something about this lack of control that is bothering him even as he kneels down, eye level with the wet hole that he needs to be inside. 

There’s so much slick, shiny and hot, to gather up on his tongue. It paints his cheeks in a satin sheen as he presses his face in. As soon as he’s cleaned up much of it, lapping it up and swallowing it down, he circles the hole with the tip of his tongue. 

More slick seeps out and he makes a game of trying to plug it back in, pushing his tongue in as far as he can until the Omega is panting and shaking with need and begging for Dean’s knot. 

Dean stands up on his own trembling legs, dropping his pants as he goes and divesting himself of his shirt in one smooth, quick motion. 

Grabbing the base of his cock he brushes it up and down Castiel’s crack, getting the head slicked up before he kisses the tip of it to the waiting pucker and presses. 

It slips a little and he adjusts his grip, pushing harder this time. Castiel stiffens but arches back into it, both of them pushing until there is give and Dean passes just inside the tight ring of muscle. Castiel tries to hold back a whimper judging by his choked gasp, his body reflexively stiffening at the intrusive pain and fingers grappling at the splintery wood for something to hang onto. 

Dean soothes a hand down Castiel’s rapidly rising and falling back while he waits for muscles to relax before delving further. 

He takes him slow. Each glide back slicks him up, each glide forward takes him deeper, until he can push and pull, thrusting into the Omega’s velvet heat with little resistance and less pain for the Omega judging by the gentle purr and emanating from below him now. 

He enjoys the slow drag, Castiel's rim squeezing whichever part of his shaft is caught in its vice, as the rest of him is swallowed into the softer ridges of Castiel's channel. But after a few minutes of that delicious torture he has to move—to give and to take. 

Dean pulls almost all the way out and snaps back in. Castiel gasps and scrambles for hold of the crate, his knuckles white. 

Terrified he’s hurt the Omega, Dean decides to not do it again until a rough voice speaks up and begs, “Please, don’t stop.”

So Dean pulls back and thrusts in, watching his cock disappear into Castiel, reappearing with the sheen of Omega slick coating his purpled flesh. 

Dean’s attention is drawn away to the rippling, tense muscles of Castiel’s back and he shifts on his feet, setting them apart a little wider. He plants hands on the crate, on either side of Castiel, giving the Omega shorter, gentler thrusts at a steady pace as he leans into his body. 

This close he can mark Castiel. It’s as simple as rubbing his cheeks and neck over the Omega, leaving behind Alpha pheromones to warn other Alphas away.

Marking Castiel’s skin quickly turns to licking thin, long trails along trembling skin but Dean’s earlier desire to bite returns with a vengeance. He doesn’t want to hurt him, just send the message to warn others that this Omega is taken. He holds a bit of flesh between his teeth with just enough pressure to threaten pain without piercing through. 

Thrust, bite, thrust, soothe with a lick. Thrust, bite, thrust, soothe. He peppers Castiel’s back with little red marks, never biting hard enough to draw blood, until he’s driven crazy with the orgasm building within and returns his focus to knotting his Omega.

He can feel the telltale swell of his knot so he wraps his arms around Castiel’s middle for leverage and takes the Omega’s cock in his other hand for Castiel to fuck into.  Holding tight to him, Dean sets a more brutal pace and thrusts deep. He has to if he wants to knot his Omega because it isn’t going to go in slow and easy. Mating isn't for the weak of heart and Dean rumbles with pleasure that Castiel not only takes it but seems eager to receive it.

There is much more noise now, neither of them able to hold back--breathless panting, slapping skin, murmured words and grunts. When Castiel moans--a long and drawn out syllable--it is fuel to Dean’s fervor, and Castiel’s cock spurts his milk-white seed over Dean’s knuckles, down the back of his hand.

Castiel shakily widens his stance and presses his hips back. He holds still in a nonverbal act of trust, relinquishing control to the Alpha.

On the final thrust Dean pushes the full knot through with a grunt, the Omega’s tight rim swallowing it and firmly holding Dean in. His own groan gets muffled against Castiel's back when he instinctively mouths a fistful of flesh and bites hard until heated copper touches his tongue. It feels like he ejaculates forever, rolling the knot with what little range of motion he has and filling Castiel up. 

It takes several seconds to register that the noises he hears are of himself murmuring sweet nothings to his sweaty, breathless Omega. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, look at that. I got a drabble up in a timely manner today. Go me!
> 
> I didn't use a whole lot of pirate speak but bumbo is a drink made from rum, water, sugar, and nutmeg.


	19. Episode 4X17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean Smith and Cas Novak both work for Sandover and begin an interoffice relationship that quickly evolves into love. Then Sam Wesson comes into Dean’s life and things become a little unsteady for awhile.
> 
> As time goes on, Cas can’t shake this unfounded feeling that everything is going to come undone. He doesn’t know what he’s actually sensing is how fragile is their entire world, which is a temporary dream construct created by AUZachariah. Soon their memories will be restored and they’ll have to return to the real world.
> 
> Inspired by ep 4x17 (the Dean Smith & Sam Wesson episode) but canon-divergent from unspecified point in s13 before Dean says yes to Michael.

The next three days' prompts make up three chapters of a longer story that I've decided to post separately. Despite how the title sounds, it is not BDSM, lol. You can find the story by clicking here:  [Ties That Bind Us](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16351991)


	20. Teacher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Cas have just moved to town and are the new elementary school teachers. Dean teaches kindergarten, Cas teaches fifth grade, and none of the faculty know that these men are actually secretly married. Due to extreme and unfortunate circumstances of their past, they've chosen to hide this small (BIG) detail from the very people that they begin to call friends and family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Promptober word: TEACHER  
> Rating: Teen+ (will be Explicit when complete but this chapter is tame)  
> Warnings: None (there will be warnings when complete)

The Art of Pretending \-- a preview  
  
  
Years ago it would have been a scratch of chalk on a blackboard to hearken a new school year. But these days is the squeegee of a dry-erase marker on a whiteboard and Dean can't help but take a deep breath of that start-of-the-school-year smell, the smell of new beginnings. 

Freshly sharpened #2 pencils, the paper-and-ink scent of crisp textbooks that crunch when you first open them, the plastic of a dozen new backpacks lining the wall, brand new boxes of waxy crayons and, of course, the dusty chemical smell of dry erase markers. 

Dean turns to his class and gestures toward the board. “Can anybody tell me what that says?”

Not a single hand goes up. The students are still a little tense and nervous, though there is some restlessness. But no one has gotten up to run off yet. He counts that as a win. 

“It reads Mr. Winchester. That’s my name.” He points at his name and makes an icky face. “What a lo-o-ong name, huh? Tell ya what, you can call me Mr. W for now—just until you and I get to know each other better—because Winchester starts with a W.”

He looks over the round, expectant faces and smiles. “I want to know everyone's name and their favorite color.”  Dean takes the open spot on the soft, round alphabet rug that he had bought over the summer and puts a light hand on the back of the student sitting to his left. “What's your name?”

“Uh, Emmett.”

“And what's your favorite color?”

“Black.”

“Awesome, black like Batman. Give me a five!” Emmett gives Dean an aggressively excited high-five, his cheeks ruddy with pleasure at the positive reinforcement. 

The next kid is a lot more bashful but Dean helps introduce Anthony, who whispers, around the fingers he has nervously pressed to his mouth, that pink is his favorite color. 

“That's one of my favorite colors, too, Anthony. Give me a five!” The child bites his lip, still curled into himself and anxious, but smiling when he presses his palm to Dean’s open hand. He stops hiding his mouth behind his hand for at least a moment. 

They continue around the circle of the twelve Kindergartners until everyone has their turn, some kids getting excited when they meet another kid who likes the same color.

The ice breaker helps and it soon becomes evident that they need to get the early morning jitters out. Dean has everyone hop up and stand on a letter. They're going to play a little game to dispel energy while also working on letter recognition and following instructions. 

It's like musical chairs but instead Dean calls out a letter when the music stops. The child standing on the letter earns a sticker. He doesn’t expect the children to recognize the letters by sight yet but it is a fun introduction. 

The morning moves along. They have music, read stories and he introduces ‘centers’ that the kids will rotate through. 

Dean about collapses on his desk after he returns to his classroom from leaving the kids at art class. It's his 40-minute planning break--or what he likes to call his Timeout--where he can zen out and hear himself think. He loves kids but he needs that calm in the middle of his go-go-go day. 

The charter school is purposefully kept to small class sizes, about sixteen students per teacher and two teachers per grade. He's not supposed to use his cell phone during class but he can use it now, grinning when he finds an earlier text from Cas.  
  


_ [C.] - 8:56am - have a great first day _

__ [Dean] - 11:02am - it IS a great day. how's 5th grade going  
  


They're on different schedules except that they do share lunch so he doesn't expect a reply yet. 

At 11:40, the end of his break, Dean heads back to the art classroom to gather his students for lunch. The bubbly Ms. Charlie Bradbury is just getting everyone lined up at the door when he steps in. 

“Hey, Mr. W,” she calls from the back of the line. “Guess who is a lunch helper and gets to come down to the cafeteria with you all?” She looks expectantly at the children.

To his surprise the class pipes up with a chorus of, “Miss Charlie,” in their high voices. 

The two teachers corral the kids down the hall toward the double doors that lead into the cafeteria. They are purposefully a few minutes early so that they can show the young students how to go through the lunch line and where to sit. 

By the time his last little charge is sat at a table, Dean pretends to wipe a hand across his forehead and makes an exasperated expression at Charlie. 

“I think your class has been my favorite today,” Charlie gushes when Dean sits across from her with his lunch. They're sitting at the end of the table next to his class so that he can give the students a little freedom but still be close enough to watch. 

“They almost seem like different kids just from this morning. I mean, Anthony barely spoke above a whisper and kept to himself. Look at him now.” They both look over and the kid has made a buddy with Jessica and is talking animatedly. “Did you work some magic over them or something? “

“Dude, Magic is my middle name.” Charlie pretends to crack her knuckles and then opens a juice box. Dean quirks a brow at her beverage of choice but she smirks and says, “No shame in my game,” before slurping it noisily.  “So, Mr. W-”

“Please, Dean. When students aren't close enough to hear at least.”

Charlie nods taking a bite of salad so big that it widens her eyes. “You got it,” she says around the wad of food. “So, Dean, what's your story?” Rather dramatically she adds, “Whence do you hail?” in a deep voice with a strange accent. 

“Pardon?” Dean laughs. “I teach the alphabet, not Shakespeare.”

Charlie rolls her eyes. “Come on, you're the new kid on the block. I gotta get all the dirt.”

Dean narrows his eyes at her. He's a really private person and if she's some gossip whore then…

“Aw, you don't have to give me your deep,  _ dark _ secrets. Just,” Charlie shrugs, “where are you from?”

“Born and raised in Lawrence, Kansas,” he says quickly and easily. It isn't a lie and yet it feels like one because Lawrence isn't where he just moved from. But Charlie doesn't need to know that.

“Small town to smaller town, huh? Thought most kids who move away want to get out of that kind of life. You know, see the big cities and travel the world, expand the horizons.”

Dean blinks at her. She has that pegged but... “Life, am I right?” He chuckles. “You think you want one thing but then you try it and find it doesn't work, so you make mistakes and find yourself back where you started. And, or, you find what you needed all along in the unexpected. In what you never thought you'd want.”

Charlie is nodding and wiping her puffed out cheeks with a napkin. “Sounds like you’ve got personal experience…” she says, voice trailing off when her eyes settle on something beyond his shoulder. Thinking maybe a food fight has broken out Dean turns and his heart skips. Like actually does those stupid flip-flops and his skin gets all tingly. 

Cas always does over-dress. It's elementary school for fuck’s sake. And yet he's standing across the room in a suit and a tie. He is comfortable and at ease, one hand tucked into a pocket of his slacks and gesturing with the other to emphasize the importance of whatever it is that he's explaining to another teacher. 

There's a flicker, like time had just paused for a hairbreadth of a second. As if Cas can sense Dean looking at him through all of these other people and their noise, their eyes meet. Cas gives him the faintest of fond smiles before continuing his conversation. 

The connection is so minuscule he doubts anyone caught it, barely a blip on the radar of Dean’s day, but he hums happily to himself and turns back to take a big bite of his sandwich. 

“He's new, too, you know.”

Dean looks up from ogling the bit of salami that his teeth dragged out from between shaved meat and cheese and says a muffled, “Wh-huh?”

“You and Mr. Novak. You're the newbs. He has a strange first name. I mean it's a nice name, just super uncommon. Ugh, what is it?” Charlie closes her eyes and starts rubbing her temples like a fortune teller. “It'll come to me. Going to drive me absolutely crazy until I remember, though.” She opens her eyes, drops her hands. “Hey, I should introduce you.”   
  
“No need,” Dean says. He chuckles. “We’ve met.”   
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a small preview of a fic that I've worked on over the past year. There's drunk Twister, there's Spirit Week, there's even a surprise blind date that Dean gets set up on (much to his frustration). It's on the bottom of my NaNoWriMo list of fics to finish next month but it could happen. If there are any other tropes/scenes you'd like to see (other than smut 'cause I got you, fam), let me know. I love spit-balling plot ideas. 
> 
> ~TheTwistedWillow~


	21. Matrix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by how Ted Mosley met conservation rights activist, Zoey, on How I Met Your Mother--but with the twist that Dean is married to the man who protesting the demolition of the very building that Dean's architectural designs will replace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Promptober word: MATRIX  
> Rating: Teen+  
> Warnings: None
> 
> Dean is so gay in this one (normally I write him as bi but indulge me, alright?!). And he's so nice.

Dean grabs his hard-hat and places it on his head just so that his hands are free to grab his rolled-up blueprints. He wants to bring the architectural designs along just to check things over for the zillionth time, to his co-worker’s chagrin.  
  
“You’re a little anal retentive about this, aren’t you?” Lisa asks. “All we're doing today is overseeing the start of the demolition.”  
  
“If this was your first assignment you’d want to make sure it was perfect, too, right?  
  
Lisa places a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Honey, I’ve already had that first and I don’t think I was nearly as much a perfectionist as you are.”  
  
Dean shrugs and grins from beneath the hard, yellow hat. “That’s ‘cause I’m perfect.”  
  
Lisa applies pressure against his shoulder, shoving him playfully, and she throws her head back with a laugh. It’s a beautifully rich sound and her nose crinkles up cutely when she tips her chin back down.  
  
They decide to carpool together which means Dean gets to drive the Impala. He tosses his rolls of paper in the back and sets his hard-hat in the well behind the driver’s seat while Lisa gets in the front passenger side.  
  
“What the--Oh, sorry. I think I just sat on your tie,” Lisa says when Dean slides in behind the wheel. He looks over at her just as she leans her body toward her door, lifting her ass off the bench seat so that she can slowly pull the long, silky blue tie out from under her thigh.  
  
“No problem,” Dean says easily, taking it from her and carefully rolling it.

“I don't recall ever seeing you wear a tie.”

“That's 'cause I don’t,” Dean says, reaching over her lap to open the glove-box. He shoves the tie wad next to an opened box of condoms and a half-used tube of lube. He slams it shut when he realizes that he just gave her a front-row viewing of that little show. Literally.  
  
She says nothing so he doesn’t either, the sound of him clearing his throat drowned out by the rumble of the Impala’s engine when he quickly turns the key. Belatedly, as they roar down the road, he realizes that parking his large car downtown is gonna be a bitch.   
  
After a minute Lisa chuckles and at least attempts to break the ice that has settled between them. “I can’t believe you have your own hard-hat.”  
  
“Have you seen the extra ones these construction guys have lying around? They’re filthy and who knows who last wore it? What if they’ve got lice?” Dean shudders and turns on his blinker.   
  
Lisa touches her dark, shiny hair and Dean looks over quick enough to catch her expression of repulsion. Yup, exactly. He is not shaving his head because Joe Schmo gives him lice.  
  
From there talking is easy. Dean hasn’t spent much time with Lisa specifically, but she was handpicked for this project because of her knowledge on the history of the area. Plus, she has experience and Dean is already nervous about his design going off without a hitch. Or at least, nothing _major_.  
  
He finds Lisa to be a bright, intelligent woman and enjoys talking with her. She wants to hold a real conversation about interesting topics instead of gossiping about their coworkers. She knows sports. She can tell a dirty joke. He can definitely see them becoming friends outside of work if she’s into it.  
  
They finally get through traffic and make it downtown and he finds a pretty decent parking spot. After grabbing up his blueprints and hat, they begin walking toward the historic Cobbler Emporium—and he don’t mean the dessert kind of cobbler. This used to be a factory where laborers made and repaired shoes.  
  
The emporium is dilapidated--and that’s a _nice_ way of putting it. It’s a hazard and a danger. The national bank that will go up in its place is going to be pretty, shiny and brand new. And not in just any building design but _Dean’s_ design.  
  
There is caution tape surrounding the tall, brick eyesore and around that a large group of people has amassed, many of them holding signs that protest the demo.  
  
Dean was expecting this. It seems that any time an old building is knocked down there are people up-in-arms about it.  
  
But Dean was not expecting for one person in particular to be in attendance and standing out from the crowd. This person is a man known locally for his activism and getting everyone riled up about preservation, and conservation, and not being sheep, or goats, or whatever.

Dean can’t help the chuckle that bubbles up from his chest that the infamous troublemaker is protesting here of all places. He shakes his head at the sight before him.  
  
“Can you believe this guy?” Lisa ridicules. “Isn’t he the one who protested the use of the horse-and-carriage rides around here?”  
  
“Yup,” Dean says, giving the man a good once-over. He can be an asshole and a thorn in Dean’s side but at least he’s stunning to behold with his disheveled I-don’t-care-to-use-a-comb crop of dark hair, piercing lake blue eyes, and really luscious lips. Like, really luscious. “That’d be him.”  
  
“Well, sorry to disappoint him but his temper tantrum isn’t going to amount to much. The building is going to have to come down,” Lisa says, crossing her arms. “When do we get the police involved?”  
  
Dean shifts awkwardly on his feet and feels an itch beneath his hard hat that he wants to scratch but doesn’t. “I’d prefer to avoid that. They’re not exactly a vicious mob or hurting anyone.”  
  
“Well, then, how do we resolve this? The demo crew isn’t getting paid to stand here twiddling their thumbs.”  
  
Sighing, Dean takes off his hard-hat and itches his scalp. “I'll plan a little chat with the ring-leader." Maybe he’s got an alternative idea.  
  
“You’re going to _talk_ to the protester responsible for delaying our work? And do what? Negotiate?”  
  
“Just trust me,” Dean says, pursing his lips. He glares at his husband for creating a headache of a situation for him.  
  
+++  
  
“Cas, what the hell?”  
  
Cas pokes his head out from above the open fridge door. “Hello, Dean.”  
  
“Do you wanna tell me why you’ were at ground zero of what should’ve been a pile of rubble by now?”  
  
The fridge door swings closed and Cas leans against it with an apple from their tree out back. Dean likes to keep several in the fridge so that they’re cold whereas Cas usually just eats them right off the tree. The rainstorm that rolled in this afternoon might have something to do with Cas taking a refrigerated one.  
  
“I found out that the Emporium was going down and showed up with like-minded individuals who don’t want to witness the destruction of history. How was I to know that that building and your secret love project were one-in-the-same?”  
  
Dean pinches the bridge of his nose. He wanted the grand opening to be a surprise for Cas but that's pretty much not happening now.  
  
“What am I supposed to do here, Cas? This puts me in an awkward position. On the one hand, this is really important to me. On the other hand, you're important to me. And what’s important to you is important to me.”  
  
“That's a _lot_ of important." Cas pushes away from the fridge and comes over to wrap his arms around Dean’s neck but Dean stares back unamused. "C’mon, don’t be mad. We’ll figure it all out.” Cas’ eyes crinkle endearingly when he smiles. “You looked so cute in your little hat today.”  
  
“ _Cute?_ I was devilishly handsome.”  
  
“Mm,” Cas hums. “I agree with the devilish part and the handsome part, but the hat was most definitely _cute_.” He draws Dean in and kisses him soundly on the lips. “Go shower. I’m making tofu burgers tonight and we’ll talk. I have an idea.”  
  
“You’re lucky I love ya,” Dean says, shaking his head. “I don’t think I’d give up red meat for anybody else.”  
  
Cas grins and takes a big, crunchy bite out of his apple.  
  
+++  
  
Dean is wrapping a towel around his damp body when he hears the doorbell. They don’t get unannounced visitors often so he figures that it’s their neighbor coming to tell them that his dog got in their yard. Again.  
  
The little shit keeps digging a hole under the fence, getting in their yard, and pissing in Cas’ garden. And Cas even has barriers up to protect his plants and produce from animals but, again, the tiny terror gets through their privacy fence. A little chicken wire is no contest for the Houdini-wannabe.  
  
Not giving a fuck if the guy sees him in a towel Dean leaves the steamy comfort of the bathroom and goes to the door. It’ll serve the guy right. ‘Cause, so help Dean, if that dog got into their yard and somehow managed to get into the guinea pig hutch that Dean just built for Cas…  
  
Dean flings the door wide open and he instantly regrets his haste. He should've just gotten dressed and let Cas get it. He clutches his towel a little tighter and shifts around uncomfortably.

“Dean, hi,” Lisa says brightly before she registers his near nakedness. Her eyes go wide but she doesn’t bother to control them from wandering down and back up.

“Uh, hey. What’re you doing here?” Dean asks, glancing down at the bottle of wine in her hand. Her clothes are darker in several spots because it's still raining lightly but thankfully he and Cas have a covered porch.

“This is—well, awkward. I wasn’t expecting you to answer the door like,” she gestures up and down his body, “this.”

“Wasn’t really expecting company. Thought you were the neighbor," he says and realizes that probably sounds bad. "So, uh, what're you doing here?"

“I just really enjoyed talking to you today and thought we could… talk more. Especially about what to do about the Emporium and those pesky protesters--” Lisa’s voice dies off, her gaze somewhere beyond Dean’s left shoulder.

He feels Cas’ hand coming around his waist before Dean feels the warmth of Cas’ body pressing against his chilled backside. Cas hooks his chin over Dean’s shoulder. It digs almost painfully into the bone there when Cas opens his mouth to speak.

“Hello, can we help you?” Cas asks coolly, clearly overhearing Lisa's jab.

Confused brown eyes dart back and forth between them. “W-what is going on here?”

“Well, I’m not sure but Dean may have been showering,” Cas says cheekily and Dean tuts at him. “And I’m pretty sure I'm cooking dinner.”

“But I know who you are and don't understand why you're _here._  You’re Castiel Novak.”

“Castiel Novak- _Winchester_ ,” Cas corrects. "And I live here."

Lisa rears back a little but manages to compose herself. “So that means you’re related or something?” she asks Dean.  
  
It’s his turn to be confused. To Dean, his marital status is as common a knowledge among his peers as what car he drives. “I thought everyone knew I was married.”  
  
“No. No, I certainly was not aware of that… fact.”  
  
Cas moves, slinking along Dean’s body until he’s at Dean’s side, an arm slung about Dean’s hips and hand still hot against Dean’s waist. “You don’t talk about me at work, _honey_?” Cas lightly teases, pulling Dean against his hip gently.  
  
“Pretty sure I’ve mentioned you, Cas.”  
  
“No, you really haven’t,” Lisa cocks her head. “You certainly didn’t say anything today. I mean, I thought you were a ladies' man. All the women at work always talk about how you're so nice and you flirt."  
  
Cas raises a brow at Dean, fighting back a smile. He's such a shit for being tickled by all of this. "Oh, do you flirt with the ladies now, Dean?"  
  
Dean huffs in exasperation and knocks his shoulder against Cas' before addressing Lisa. "Just because a man is nice doesn't mean he's flirting. I like talking to people, that's it."  
  
"Okay, fair enough. But you don’t ever wear a ring. People _l_ _ook_ for the ring to gauge these sorts of situations in addition to how they're treated.”  
  
“Are you aware of how diamonds are mined?” Cas interrupts, getting that squinty, serious look. “Why would we buy rings from any establishment that supported such practices?”  
  
“I’m surprised you live in a home with electricity and running water,” Lisa quips.  
  
“Why is that? Invention and advancement aren't the adversaries," Cas says and Dean looks at him fondly. Hot and bothered Cas, well, makes Dean all hot and bothered. "Sometimes it is the means by which we obtain those luxuries that are the problem, sure. What I will not abide by are any practices that harm or neglect the innocent, including animals and children.”  
  
“Then what about this building, huh?” Lisa challenges. “What does it have to do with little orphan Annie or Fido? I don’t see animals chained up and starving inside of it.”  
  
Dean is becoming increasingly uncomfortable. And cold. The rain is picking up along with a breeze. “Hey, can we maybe move this conversation inside before Mrs. Higgins from across the street gets an eye-full and calls the cops for public indecency?”  
  
“Wouldn’t be the first time for me,” Cas mutters, moving away and toward the kitchen.  
  
"Come in," Dean offers. He doesn't want Lisa running off until they can talk this out. The last thing he wants is her starting a rumor on misinformation and assumptions. Not that he thinks she'd stoop so low but how would he know? "There's the couch if you wanna make yourself comfortable."   
  
Dean leaves her in the living room and he hustles to the master bedroom to get dressed. He was hoping to get into pajamas but with a guest, even an unexpected one, he opts for blue jeans and a grey Henley. He doesn't bother with his hair, making do with running his fingers through the nearly dried strands.  
  
“Okay, thanks for waitin’,” Dean says when he returns. Cas is still in the kitchen but Lisa rises up from the sofa as he approaches her.  
  
“Dean,” Lisa whispers harshly under her breath, one of her hands wringing the neck of the wine bottle. Clearly idling for a minute gave her time to think and get mad. “You’re _marrie_ _d_  to the guy who led the protest? _How_ does that work exactly?”  
  
“Well, he just gets passionate about things,” Dean says with a shrug.  
  
“No, not that part. The part where you did _nothing_ about it today. This is a major conflict of interest. You’re sleeping with the enemy.”  
  
“Okay, hang on,” Dean says, getting annoyed now. “So he doesn’t want to fall in line and be some cog in the Matrix machine? That doesn't make him the enemy. He's a goddamn hero. If you heard half the stuff he's done--”  
  
“Fine, poor choice of word,” Lisa backs off. She shakes her head slightly as she stares at Dean. “You’re at least an odd pair. You have a gas guzzler and a smartphone, for Christ’s sake. Doesn’t he have something to say about that?”  
  
“Believe me, we’ve talked about the phones. But his fight isn’t with me. It’s with the establishment. As for the building--”  
  
“How about you both come in here and ask the questions," Cas calls from the kitchen, "so that I can at least interject and offer perspective?”  
  
Dean chuckles awkwardly and makes an ‘after you’ gesture before following Lisa into his own kitchen where Cas has set the table for three.  
  
“Please, sit. Stay. Eat,” Cas says, walking over with a plate of sliced vegetables for the burger toppings. “Let’s chat.”  
  
“Oh, no. I’m not staying. I was just stopping by to--to--” Lisa’s hand flutters around and she can’t seem to find the words to finish her sentence.  
  
“Hit on Dean? Please, don’t let me get in the way.” Cas takes his seat and looks between her and Dean with amusement.  
  
Dean rolls his eyes and drops a kiss to the top of Cas' head much to Cas' delight. “Alright, knock it off,” he murmurs gently. “Lisa, I told you I’d talk to him about today. If you’d like to stay and discuss it with us, you’re more than welcome. I really think we should listen to what he's got to say.”  
  
“Alright, but it looks like we’re going to need this wine,” she acquiesces, passing off the bottle to Dean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, this one is late, I'm over the word count, and I didn't finish. Basically what I envision happening is that Cas has ideas on using recycled materials and restoring the existing building--which ends up actually saving money. Not only is Dean's first project a success but he got to work alongside the love of his life, making it their project.
> 
> And the reason Cas doesn't want this specific building torn down? It used to use child labor and Cas doesn't want history to be erased. I mentioned Lisa knowing the history of the area so they end up finding common ground and getting along. 
> 
> Just to reduce confusion about Lisa getting upset: Lisa comes into this not liking Cas because she sees him as a troublemaker and doesn't see the results of his humanitarian efforts. If you felt betrayed and misled then you might be as upset as her. There will be reconciliation. 
> 
> What version of Cas are you getting from this story? I was going for Endverse, minus the drug use. He's a very confident and sassy man in this one. I kinda dig it. 
> 
> ~TheTwistedWillow~


End file.
